


The Early Hiatus: Part II

by Cerdic519



Series: Elementary 366 [9]
Category: Highlander: The Series, Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle, Supernatural
Genre: Alibis, Angst, Art, Athletes, Bigotry & Prejudice, Boats and Ships, Bullying, Caring, Codes & Ciphers, Cows, Deception, Disguise, Egypt, Embarrassment, England (Country), F/M, Family, Fan-fiction, Framing Story, Friendship, Galas, Gay Sex, Hot, Illegitimacy, Infidelity, Inheritance, Johnlock - Freeform, Journalism, Justice, Kilts, London, Love, M/M, Male Prostitution, Minor Character Death, Murder, One Night Stands, Painting, Photoshop, Pining, Racism, Religion, Sabotage, Scandal, Scotland, Slow Burn, Surprises, Teasing, Theft, Trains, University, Vendettas, Victorian
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-21
Updated: 2020-02-02
Packaged: 2021-02-27 03:18:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 17
Words: 32,707
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22350145
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cerdic519/pseuds/Cerdic519
Summary: The Complete Cases Of Sherlock Holmes And John Watson. All 366 cases plus assorted interludes, hiatuses, codas &c.1884. In the second part of his wanderings Holmes travels to Scotland where he meets a conniving relative who makes a complete fool of him. Then he encounters a worryingly carefree runner, an old friend, some Moscow cows, an English kilt, a possibly vengeful ghost, a Biggar man, an unrepentant truth-teller, some Lowland Highlanders and a Gala gala. He also gets his third big shock in three years, but at least Watson is all right.Ah......
Relationships: Connor MacLeod/Duncan MacLeod, Lucifer/OMC, Sherlock Holmes & John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: Elementary 366 [9]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1555741
Kudos: 20





	1. Contents

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bookworm4ever81](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bookworm4ever81/gifts), [lyster99](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lyster99/gifts).



> This series is completely written and will be updated daily until done.  
> All cases in the Early Hiatus are new, but for consistency are still marked ☼.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Contents page.

**1884**  
 **Interlude: Growing Pains**  
by Mr. Benjamin Jackson-Giles, Esquire  
 _Benji has to push hard to stop Lucifer talking_

**Case 70: Feel The Burn ☼**  
by Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Esquire  
 _Holmes helps out a relative – except all is not what it seems_

**Case 71: Murder On The Waverley ☼**  
by Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Esquire  
 _Inspector Stanley Hopkins once again asks for Holmes's help_

**Case 72: What Lies Beneath ☼**  
by Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Esquire  
 _Holmes uses modern technology to prevent a tragedy_

**Case 73: The Adventure Of Darnley's Ghost ☼**  
by Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Esquire  
 _A man is driven mad by a ghost – but all is not what it seems_

**Interlude: Front Page News**  
by Doctor John Watson, M.D.  
 _The story of Watson's grandfather breaks at last_

**Case 74: The Adventure Of The Gala Gala ☼**  
by Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Esquire  
 _Two horrible sisters make a colourful splash at a gala in Gala_

**Case 75: The Adventure Of The Field-Bazaar ☼**  
by Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Esquire  
 _Someone is writing horrible (and worse, true) things about people_

**Interlude: Highlander**  
by Lady Aelfrida Holmes  
 _Lady Aelfrida calls for an ambulance_

**Case 76: The Adventure Of The Biggar Man ☼**  
by Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Esquire  
 _Holmes helps out a sorely-used tall gentleman_

**Case 77: The Adventure Of The Moscow Cows ☼**  
by Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Esquire  
 _An especially nice client – which makes the outcome even worse_

**Case 78: The Adventure Of The Kirkcudbrightshire Killing ☼**  
by Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Esquire  
 _A blackmailer ends up floating face-down in a river – and Sherlock has to deliver justice_

**Case 79: The Adventure Of Logan's Run ☼**  
by Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Esquire  
 _Holmes again averts a disaster and helps out a young man_

**Case 80: When The Boat Comes In ☼**  
by Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Esquire  
 _Holmes finds out about and then meets his twin Sherrinford_

**Interlude: Assessment**  
by Mr. Sherrinford Holmes, Esquire  
 _Sherrinford Holmes's musings on meeting his twin_

**Interlude: One Night In Egypt**  
by Doctor John Watson, M.D.  
 _Watson makes a very slight error of judgement_

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	2. Interlude: Growing Pains

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1884\. Being young involves making the odd mistake – sometimes with terrible, terrible consequences!

_[Narration by Mr. Benjamin Jackson-Giles, Esquire]_

I was not yet twenty-one and not even a father at the time. But looking back, even I should have known better.

I was beginning to get to know Mr. Lucifer well and we had already established what I called the 'Rule of Three'. Most times I would arrive and it would be a normal day where he wanted a long, hard fucking of the sort that I took great pleasure in giving him. He had a good body for a government worker in his thirties, though I was responsible for keeping it good even if he could barely walk when I was done with him.

There were a couple of exceptions though. Some days – I was sure it was something to do with his job, which he hated parts of though he never said as much – he just wanted to be held, his shorter body folding into mine almost as if he was trying to hide from the world. Then there were the rare times when he met me at the door wearing that stupid white Panama hat of his. That, I knew, meant that he completely surrendered himself to me as I gave it everything that I had to work every last bit of stress out of his body.

One of the things I really liked about Mr. Lucifer was that unlike so many clients I had had in my time, he treated me like another human being and not just a slab of meat with a huge dick on the end. I have never coped well with anything formal like, and I found the sort of family dos that Bet dragged me to from time to time just horrible. Luckily she knew that and said nothing when I always sent Mr. Lucifer a message afterwards, and he would then meet me at the door wearing that damn hat. I was soon better again, especially as it felt so good him telling me afterwards that he’d loved it even if he would not be walking anywhere any time soon.

Today had been one of those 'hat' times, not an ‘event’ one but where something in his job had clearly gotten on top of him. So I got on top of him and sorted it all out. We were lying in bed afterwards, his broken body collapsed on top of mine, when I made the mistake of asking what had happened to make him need this.

As I said, I was only twenty-one.

“Sherlock is back in London”, he sighed.

I was surprised at that. I knew that there had been some sort of major family problem in Doctor Watson's life that had made him high-tail it off to Egypt for some reason – there were few secrets in London Town – but I would have thought that the human wreckage snuggling into my chest would have been happy to have around one of the few relatives that he liked. Most of Bet's family still distrusted me although worryingly, her mother was still attending those art classes where I posed naked. Ugh!

“You like Mr. Sherlock, sir”, I said.

He shuddered for some reason.

“Not that”, he said. “His mother invited me round.”

That was where if I had had the least bit of sense I would have shut him up with another thorough fucking. Mr. Sherlock's mother wrote the sort of stories that..... I had read one once and I still had nightmares, especially when I saw the loofah in our bathroom at home.

Unfortunately and in my callow ignorance, I ploughed on to my doom.

“She is all right?” I asked.

He looked at me with hollow eyes.

“After she saw you and me in the Park the other day”, he said, “she came up with new horror about a government scheme where I could only be stopped from some cruel deed by your fucking me all day and night”, he said. “'Growing Pains'. You were taking some strange blue pills, and they meant that when you fucked me, the Banjax broke off,”

I stared at him in horror. _What?_

“Then it turned out that the pills made you grow a new one in just minutes”, he said, shuddering. “And while you were doing it, the old one was continued to fuck me until it exploded inside me. Then you fucked me again, it broke off again….. sex on the hour every hour for a whole damn week, one hundred and sixty-eight fuckings.....”

That was enough of that! I quickly rolled him over onto his back and thrust straight in – thankfully he was still loose. I mean, me losing the Banjax..... _what was that lady on?_

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	3. Case 70: Feel The Burn ☼

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1884\. After a brief (thankfully brief enough!) visit to London, Holmes is off on his travels again. This time he is headed to Scotland, and his first port of call is to one of his distant relatives who is worried about a murder that she expects to happen very soon. But all is not what it seems in Haddingtonshire, and the great detective is about to be completely outmanoeuvred by a criminal mastermind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Off-story mention of abortion.

_[Narration by Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Esquire]_

I duly sent Watson that postcard from St. Asaph and I did mention the ladies of the Flower-Arranging Society as I knew that he would roll his eyes that that was still going on. Before you ask, yes; I also mentioned those damn sheep!

Following my brother Carl's advice I did not linger in the area but headed straight for London and, very reluctantly, to the family house. Mother was of course delighted to see me and gave me what she said was the excellent news that her latest masterpiece was ahead of schedule and would be ready any day now. I glared upwards at the heavens when I left for Baker Street; the Good Lord was apparently getting back at me for the hassocks thing.

I had of course sent ahead to let Mrs. Hudson know that I would be returning for a short while (I remembered that pistol!) and arrived to find that 221B had a new occupant, although one that I should have been expecting. As we had been told would happen Mrs. Hudson's niece Miss Josephine Thackeray had moved into the family rooms. She was then some sixteen years of age and..... let us just say what a certain doctor would have been rolling his eyes at the look that she gave me. 

_I still had it!_

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It turned out that the Good Lord was not so displeased with me after all, and not just because of the unpleasant Mr. Anderson having finally been cornered by Colonel Trott outside his Liverpool hotel (I again gave thanks for the English jury system; the police would quickly realize that no twelve good men and true would ever convict a gentleman for killing the rat who had slept with his own wife even if he had shot him, ahem, down there!). A cousin of my mother's of whom she was inordinately fond and who lived in Scotland was concerned over something that she feared was going to happen in her home town, and as I had said that I would be headed to that country on leaving the capital Mother asked that I attend her as a matter of urgency. I owed Father as well for suggesting that it would not be fair to send me a copy of her forthcoming horr.... masterpiece through the general post as it would have distracted me (it would have certainly stopped me sleeping at night!). Far better, he had suggested, to take advantage of Torver's always coming around and to let him hear it all.

I sometimes had the impression that Father did not like Torver. I cannot think why!

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I left (fled) the capital at the end of February and headed north. I took an East Coast express as far as Berwick, then a much slower North British train as I would have to get out at Longniddry, the junction for the short branch to my destination of Haddington. It was cold all the way (it started snowing quite literally at the Border, despite it being March!) but I made it to my destination if frozen to the marrow. So much for spring in Scotland!

Haddington turned out to be a pleasant enough small town which, as the name suggests, was the county town for Haddingtonshire, not far from where Mother had dragged me after my graduation some eight years back and just before Watson and I had moved into Montague Street (horrifyingly, Mother sometimes wore the MacDonnell kilt that she had purchased, and worse, without any advance warning!). There were I noted several signs of recent growth in the town; I presumed that this was due to the railway enabling commuters to live there and hoped that it would not result in the same sort of urban sprawl that was too common in some of London’s unlovely northern suburbs.

I was thinking of Watson as I arrived, since I had a vague recollection that he mad mentioned this place to me in some connection or other, I therefore decided to see if there was anything of interest in this town’s past but almost the only thing of note was the Burnt Candlemas Raid when the English had destroyed the place by fire on that second day of February as part of a raid across the Lothians, and I doubted that there was much of a connection between today and the year 1356. 

The other thing of interest I found, which as with so much again reminded me of Watson, was that apparently back in the Middle Ages this had been the fourth largest city in Scotland, behind Edinburgh, Aberdeen and Roxburgh. The latter had fared worse even than Haddington and there was now only a tiny village there (I would shortly find out that the book was wrong on that), but the county named for its former glory had remained and it was from there that both Watson's mother Edith and my stepbrother Campbell's mother Mary had both hailed. It really was a small world at times.

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“I wish for you to try and stop someone from being murdered.”

I stared incredulously at Miss Elspeth MacDonnell, my mother's second cousin but one of the few relatives that she liked because – I had shuddered when this had been revealed to me – they both liked to write the same sort of 'stories'! 

Miss MacDonnell was about sixty years of age, grey-haired and with rose-pink horn-rimmed spectacles. She had moved to the town when her late husband had died some five years back; they had lived up in the Far North somewhere but she had taken the opportunity to move somewhere warmer, or at least less cold. She was in so many ways the archetypal fussy old lady. 

Except possibly for that last statement.

“That is not easy”, I said, recovering somewhat. “The would-be murderer has all the advantages in being able to choose the time and place of their attack, while those striving to prevent it must somehow maintain a constant watch everywhere.”

“I can tell you roughly when it is going to be”, she said confidently, “and who is going to do it. Also who the victim will be.”

She sounded like she was announcing a menu for a church bazaar, her tone was so mundane. I stared at her in astonishment. But then Mother had suggested that this lady, like my late grandmother Mary O'Reilly, had the Sight, so perhaps she did know something.

“Let us start with the murderer”, I said, thinking that my world was threatening to become as strange as one of my mother's stor..... please God no!

“Constable Tuppence”, she said firmly.

I stared at her.

“Your local policeman is a _murderer?”_ I said incredulously.

“Of course not!” she almost snapped. “He has not murdered anyone yet. But he will, next Sunday.”

Assuming that she was right and I had not somehow wandered into some strange parallel universe, that made things infinitely harder. An officer of the law had so many more chances to act, and knew lots of ways to avoid detection.

“Why next Sunday?” I asked.

“Every year at Candlemas we hold a ceremony to mark the burning of 1356”, she said (ye Gods, there _was_ a connection!). “But back in January part of the church roof collapsed with all that snow so it had to be postponed. It will be this Sunday, which is when the murder will take place.”

“Have you any idea where?” I asked hopefully.

“All I can say is that it will not be in the church”, she said. “That is the point; everyone who is anyone attends so it will be the opportunity that he has been waiting for.”

“Who will the victim be?” I tried.

“Young Henry Rockingham”, she said, “although he prefers to be called 'Rocks'. He might prefer it less if he knew how many round here are saying that that is all his head contains!”

“Just why will the constable be killing him?” I asked.

She reddened slightly.

“”That is the sordid part, I am afraid”, she said, the disgust in her voice palpable. “Mr. Rockingham had a…. relationship with Constable Tuppence's daughter Harriet, a girl no better than she ought to be. She got pregnant and Rocks took her to Edinburgh for..... well, you are a man of the world, cousin. I am sure that you can work out what for.”

Unfortunately I could. Ugh!

“She is back now?” I asked. My cousin nodded.

“Back and as bad as ever!” she snorted. “I did wonder if she might get away with it but clearly someone talked, although it took the constable far too long to work out who had been responsible. Then again, with her for a daughter I should perhaps give him that, and he got there in the end.”

I stared at my relative. I had to say it.

“How do you know all this?” I asked.

She looked piteously at me.

“My dear boy”, she said, “I _know!”_

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Only very rarely have in my career would I face the dilemma as to how to _stop_ a crime actually taking place, for as I told my cousin it is extremely difficult. Fortunately young Mr. Rockingham was it turned out a creature of habit and always undertook a round of golf on Sundays, partly because the course just east of the Burgh was then all but empty (I say 'Burgh' because my cousin had corrected me quite archly over that. Haddington was not just a mere town, it was a _royal burgh!_ That was me told!).

On Sunday I therefore rose early and headed off to the golf course which, as I said, lay east of the.... burgh. The River Tyne (obviously not the English one; this namesake was but a small burn that met the sea north of Dunbar) flowed along the north side of the course and..... oh Lord no!

There was a bag of clubs close to the river-bank, and I moved closer. Sure enough there were two figures; a tall red-headed fellow standing in the river and, floating face-down in front of him, what was clearly a corpse. I had come too late.

“Constable Tuppence?” I said.

The hulking fellow looked up at me and nodded. His face was expressionless, and that chilled me to the bone.

“Please remove the body to the bank, then come with me.”

He did not speak but did as I ordered. We walked off together to the clubhouse where thankfully I found someone who I could order to secure the body, when we went back to the town. There was only one other policeman in the small police-station, a Sergeant MacBean who had been interviewing a suspect for some crime or other, and although I may have imagined it he did not seem overly surprised at what I had to tell him. The murderous constable was locked in a cell and I went off to my cousin's house to tell her the news.

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Clearly being _sans_ Watson had addled my brain. It was not until I had finished telling Miss MacDonnell everything that, far too late, I finally got it.

“You _knew_ that I would be too late!” I exclaimed.

“Of course, cousin”, she said, not the least bit surprised. “The constable knew full well that ‘Rocks’ was allowed on the course early as he knows – or knew – the owner. Hence he could easily murder him before the place opened, bot that there was likely to be anyone there today.”

“You got me up here so that I would be the first one at the scene of the crime!” I said crossly. “An outsider whose word could be trusted.”

“Really!” she said in apparent exasperation. “It could hardly have been anyone round here. We all knew what he was planning, although only I knew the date and time.”

I glared at her, only now working it out.

“What about Constable Tuppence's fellow officers?” I asked.

“I thought your mother said that you were the clever one”, she sighed. “They were in on it. One interviewing a witness with his lawyer at the station and the other at the service; they had to have alibis. Surely even _you_ know that policemen always stick together?”

I could not believe that she had made such a fool of me!

“You set me up!” I protested.

“Yes.”

She said it so straightforwardly that I could scarcely believe it. 

“Even if he does go to trial it will be in front of a jury who..... they will never convict for a rogue who did something like that to the man's daughter.”

“They might have done had there been any doubt”, she said. “But there is none, especially with the crime having been discovered by the one outsider in the town who has a reputation for following justice.”

I could not believe that I had been such a fool! Watson would laugh for hours when I told him this!

“It could be worse”, my cousin offered.

I glared at her.

_”How, precisely?”_

“I could always write this up and send it to your mother as inspiration for her next story!”

I shuddered at such a dreadful prospect. I had had a letter from Carl the day before telling me that Torver was still shaking after having heard Mother's 'masterpiece'. I had almost felt sorry for..... no. Not going to happen.

“You should be happy”, my cousin said primly. “Justice is done in the end, after all.”

“Harrumph!”

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Postscriptum: I suppose that I must concede that she was right and justice was done in the end, annoying though it all was to have been made such a complete fool out of. The local prosecutors did not even try to bring the case to trial, knowing full well what twelve good men and true would make of it, and the death of Mr. Henry Rockingham, most unfortunately drowned in a local burn while playing that most pointless of so-called sports, was never fully explained. I kept a distant eye on Constable Tuppence but he never again ventured into the criminal world and later moved to neighbouring Berwickshire where he rose to the rank of inspector. His daughter ran off with a travelling salesman the following year and was last heard of somewhere in Ireland.

I still felt a complete fool, though!

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	4. Case 71: Murder On The Waverley ☼

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1884\. Holmes receives another call for help, from an old friend this time, which lands him quite literally in the middle of nowhere as he tries to figure out how someone can be in two places at the same time.

_[Narration by Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Esquire]_

After my abject humiliation at the hands of my elderly cousin (who to be fair did somewhat remedy matters by getting my hotel to provide me with extra bacon for the rest of my stay in Haddingtonshire, although she also smirked far too much for my liking whenever I saw her), I was looking for some rest from my exertions before I continued on my way. I journeyed to the coast next, where as I mentioned before Gullane reminded me of Watson because it was the last place I had stayed at before moving in with him back in 'Seventy-Six, while nearby Dunbar reminded me of him because he had once talked about the famous English victories some centuries apart† over the Scots there, the second of which had been on a September the third, my birthday. 

I hoped that he was safe. Luke had told me that an extra unit had reached his base in southern Egypt, so he was better protected now. My cousin also mentioned that Benji's wife was pregnant again and the behemoth had celebrated by.... thanks to my cousin I always winced when I saw a Panama hat now! Perhaps it was time to arrange for a certain London fruiterer to have a nice bumper box of ‘supplies; again…..

I spent a pleasant few weeks touring Berwickshire and briefly popping back across the border to see Berwick itself, which inevitably reminded me that I was in Watson's home county. I also took in the chance to visit Coldstream, the town in Scotland whose railway-station was in a different country even if it was barely a mile away across the river in neighbouring Cornhill-on-Tweed. Then it was back into Scotland and I visited the rather attractive town of Duns, Berwickshire’s county town. 

As I may have mentioned before, Luke and Carl had between them employed a secretary to work through the letters that came for me during my absence. Most were insignificant, but I had provided them with a short list of people who I considered friends and whose letters might be forwarded to me (I knew even if I did not wish to dwell on just how that the ever-efficient Miss St. Leger would know exactly where I was at any given time). One such letter reached me in Duns, which was fortunate as things turned out as it involved someone then quite close to hand.

Stanley Hopkins had been one of the rising stars of the Metropolitan Police Service when I had started out in London, and it had been his misfortune that his promotion to inspector had got caught up in the aftermath of the Spencer John Gang business and the Metropolitan Police's determined efforts to prove that yes, they could make a bad situation worse (the case recorded as 'Around The Horne'). Fortunately I had again been able to remedy matters as a result of which Hopkins had secured both his return to his Borders home and his deserved promotion. I knew that he would have preferred to have stayed in London but I did not trust the police there not to try something else against him, which said a lot for the service paid for out of my own taxes. He wrote that he was now in the town of Hawick so I hastened on to that town, which a ticket-vendor testily told me was 'hoyke, not ha-wick'. 

That was me told (again).

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Inspector Hopkins was much as I remembered from his departure two years back, a tall slender fellow in his mid-forties. He had certainly found a pleasant stomping-ground; the small town was charming even if it was so isolated, and I had been lucky to only have to change once at St. Boswell’s Junction to get here. In fact things had turned out well for my friend; his mother had fallen ill not long after his arrival here and he had been grateful that since she lived at St. Boswell’s, he was only a few miles away from her.

“I was hoping you might be able to assist me with this Canmore murder, sir”, he said. 

“I have not read about it in any of the newspapers”, I said. “How may I be of assistance?”

He took a deep breath and began.

“The dead man was a Mr. Michael Canmore”, he said. “A loan shark and not a loss to Mankind, all told. I suspected he was likely hiding out in our remote area because he'd upset someone important, and also because with all this modern technology you can run a business from almost anywhere these days. He certainly went for remote all right; he lived at Riccarton Junction!”

He said that as if I should have known about such a place. Unfortunately my walking encyclopaedia was currently sweating buckets over a thousand miles away.

“A place on the Waverley line, the North British route through here that links Carlisle and Edinburgh”, he explained. “It's the junction for a line that eventually runs down to Newcastle-upon-Tyne.”

“It does not sound that remote”, I observed.

“Actually it is”, he said. “There's no road access to the station; it sits between three hills with a tiny village next to it. They have to keep one engine always in steam at the next station up for emergencies, it's so cut off from the outside world. Someone broke into Mr. Canmore's cottage and murdered him.”

I frowned. I could see the obvious problem here.

“A loan shark”, I said. “The list of people who would wish him sent into the next world before his time would likely be a long one.”

“There's the problem, sir”, he said. “You see, I thought we had it easy when we found a fellow who'd bought tickets to go from St. Boswell's to Newcastleton, which is a way south of Riccarton. He was a rough sort and all, with a record any judge would have taken one look at then banged him up and thrown away the key.”

I looked at him shrewdly.

“I take it that it was not that easy?” I asked. He nodded glumly.

“Mr. Nicholas Sturridge was looking to buy a property in Newcastleton some way south of the Junction”, he said. “We can be pretty sure of the time of the murder, but he has six people who all place him in Newcastleton when we know the murder was being committed. That includes the stationmaster who saw him waiting on the northbound platform for the train back to St. Boswell's. He has a pretty distinctive ginger thatch so the fellow was sure, worse luck.”

“I suppose that the service on such a remote line is not that frequent?” I asked. 

“As I said it's the main route through to Edinburgh”, he said, “so there's lots of fast trains but few stopping ones.”

“How can you be sure of the time of death?” I asked him.

“Mr. Canmore's place in Riccarton was fairly isolated” he said, “but one family lives by the path leading to it. Mrs. Falkland became suspicious when she saw someone going past her window and headed back to the station; unfortunately she only saw a shadow although she came out and saw him going. Her description was pretty vague but it could've been Sturridge, though no jury would've convicted him on it. But she knew her neighbour did not like people going to see him so she went up to stick her nose in.... I mean to check up on him.”

I smiled at the verbal non-slip.

“She found Mr. Canmore dead and still bleeding”, he said. “The doctor came down from Shankend to confirm it. The shooter had to have left by the southbound train; by the time the next northbound one reached there the place was buzzing with the news.”

“No-one else saw anything?” I asked.

“I thought that odd in a place the size of Riccarton so I asked around”, he said. “No-one saw anything at the station which is a huge place being a junction, but Greg up at Shankend said a fellow dressed in walking gear got off from the southbound train before. He could have followed the track south to Riccarton to get there in time for the murder, there's nothing at Shankend except a couple of cottages and some paths for hill-walkers.”

“And your best suspect has an alibi”, I said. “Is he married or possessed of any family?”

“He lives with his brother who's likely another con, but too sharp to have gotten caught”, the inspector said. “Yet. I wondered that but the brother went to Galashiels for the day, and he looks nothing like him. The station-master at St. Boswell's remembers him getting on the train.”

I thought for a moment. 

“This Mr. Nicholas Sturridge”, I said. “Is he fat by any chance?”

The inspector looked at me oddly (I did not blame him!) but answered.

“A bit”, he said. “Very heavily built. Why do you ask, sir?”

“And the brother”, I said. “Is he blond or dark-haired?”

My friend’s expression suggested that he was thinking I had likely lost it, but was too polite to comment.

“Blond, sir”, he said.

“Then I can see one possibility”, I said. “I will have to start arranging a standing order from her local bakery for Miss St. Leger, but I think that she should be able to find something.

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Luckily my friend down in London was able to wire me confirmation of what I had suspected, and the following day the inspector and I went to the railway station.

“Will you be wanting to go to Riccarton, Newcastleton or both sir?” My friend asked.

“Neither”, I said to his evident surprise. “We are headed to St. Boswell's Junction. You said that this Mr. Sturridge lives with his brother in St. Boswell's.”

“Newtown, sir”, he corrected.

I looked at him in confusion.

“There's two St. Boswell's”, he explained. “St. Boswell's and Newtown St. Boswell's. The junction station's in Newtown, the county town, where the Sturridges live.”

I wondered why the North British Railway had not adopted a more sensible naming policy, but this was not the time to worry about such things.

“I hope to conclude this case today”, I said to his evident surprise. “We shall be able to arrest your murderer."

“Who, sirs?” he asked.

“Mr. Sturridge”, I said. He looked at me incredulously.

“But he's in the clear, sir”, he said. “Unless he can be in two places at once.”

“In a sense he can”, I said, looking out into the mostly empty countryside. “The area seems very underpopulated.”

“Riever‡ territory”, he said. “It changed hands and was raided so often over the years that it fell behind other parts of both England and Scotland. But it's a good place.”

 _Also the county where Watson's mother hailed from_ , I thought. I must send him something from here. Campbell too, despite his playing the big brother on a regular basis and giving Mother ideas that she does not need, the villain! And I might help Benji celebrate his forthcoming new family member with some extra 'supplies' that, I was sure, the over-informative Luke would appreciate. 

_If he survived!_

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We only had a short journey north to one or other of the St. Boswell's and the countryside continued to be almost empty. The luckless Mr. Canmore had likely thought himself safe out here in this barren wilderness and his removal may indeed have been a good thing for Mankind – it most likely had been – but justice was for all, even him. As Watson had said more than once, the day that those in charge starting deciding who was or was not worthy of justice, society was on a slippery slope indeed.

St. Boswell's Junction was as it had been at my last call a hive of activity. We first visited the police-station when we procured a couple of constables to be sent round to the back of where we were heading (as usual, I had to allow for how parochial even constabularies in the same county were). I then led the way to a small cottage on the edge of the town. Once we were in the right street I stopped.

“I am sorry to cast a pall over proceedings”, I said taking out my gun, “but given what is behind that door I would prefer to be armed when it is opened. Inspector?”

He looked most alarmed; I guessed that his sleepy border county was not used to this sort of drama. I walked the last few steps and knocked sharply at the door.

It was opened by a sallow-faced ginger-haired fellow of about forty years of age, who looked more than a little alarmed when he saw my gun. He made to slam the door but I moved faster, pushing my way in and shoving the gun to his chest. He froze and I placed a hand over his mouth just in case.

 _”Where is he?”_ I hissed.

He glanced upwards at the nearby stairs before he could stop himself.

“Inspector”, I said quietly, “can you.....”

“What's all this noise, Col?”

A second fellow had appeared at the top of the stairs wearing only a nightshirt. He was blond, much thinner than the fellow trying very hard not to move with my gun against him, and his eyes widened as they took in the scene below.

“Oh God!”

I smiled in triumph.

“I suggest, Mr. Sturridge, that you walk slowly down the stairs”, I said. “Any sudden movements may make me decide to be safe rather than sorry; I am sure the human race would not miss either your or your brother's earlier departure. Hopkins, cuff this rascal then you can see to our sleepy friend.”

To his credit the inspector did as I asked although he must have been bursting with questions. I was just relieved that things had worked out so well.

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“I do not believe it!” the inspector sighed. “How was I dumb enough not to see it?”

“Because mathematically speaking, the odds of there being identical twin brothers who both devolve to a life of crime is extremely small”, I said. “The two men knew that their physical similarity would likely come in useful one day, so they made sure that instead of two identical blond and thin gentlemen, one of them dyed his hair red and wore what is commonly called a ‘fat-suit’ to empathize the difference between the two. You did not mention it but Mr. Nicholas Sturridge also applied fake freckles as well. A fake birth certificate to make him a year younger completed the illusion; no-one could have suspected that they were identical twins until the time came when they needed to play on it.”

“The murder was very easy. A thin, blond Mr. Colin Sturridge knows that despite their dissimilarity in appearance he will be checked out, so he goes to the station before his brother and buys a ticket to Galashiels. He then changes his appearance, gets out at the first station and either walks or takes a train back where he is joined by his brother Nicholas, after which they both head south. A portly, ginger Mr. Nicholas Sturridge hides from the ticket-collector and alights at Shankend, walks to Riccarton to commit the murder, and has time to get back to Shankend to catch the train home. He has checked the place out beforehand and knows that the nosy lady whose cottage he has to pass twice may well see him, so he makes sure that she sees someone who could be identified as his brother.”

“Meanwhile said brother will have what seems like the perfect alibi. At the same time that the murder is being committed the portly ginger Mr. _Colin_ Sturridge makes sure that he is seen on the platform at Newcastleton by as many people as possible. Everyone therefore believed that it was impossible for either brother to have committed the murder.”

“Damn cunning!” the inspector grunted. “The bastards.”

“Indeed”, I said. “Although I am afraid that your problems with those two gentlemen may be just beginning.”

“What do you mean?” he asked.

“A jury will probably not convict on murder as they could not be sure which of them did the actual deed”, I said. “I am sure that their lawyer will advise them to obfuscate the matter as much as possible. You will have to scour the dead man's cottage for any evidence that you can find to prove which one did it. They will not of course get away without a stiff sentence but as for the drop they truly deserve – that may be more difficult.

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I was fortunately to be proven wrong in that assessment, and for once I was glad so to be. The town's excellent policemen found fragments of some stone chippings in the boots of Mr. Nicholas Sturridge which were traced to the recently relayed surface of the platform at Shankend as they still had on them some of the chemicals used by the railway company. That proved that he had to have been the one to have alighted there and so had to have been the murderer. He and his evil brother both paid the full price for their foul deeds.

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_Notes:_   
_† April 27th, 1296 when King Edward the First had ousted the ineffectual King John (Balliol) who he himself had appointed king just four years before, and assumed control of Scotland himself. More famously September 3rd, 1650, on Holmes's birthday which was how the subject had come up. Outnumbered two to one and cut off from his supply lines, Oliver Cromwell brilliantly outmanoeuvred the massively larger Scots army and broke it, securing a victory that led to the destruction of the Royalist cause at Worcester exactly one year later. Dunbar is the only place of any size between Berwick (38 miles away) and Edinburgh (30 miles away), so far enough from the latter to act as an advanced base of operations._   
_‡ Rievers were raiders sanctioned (unofficially) by both sides to raid over the Border. The modern word 'ruffian' comes from the same root._

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	5. Case 72: What Lies Beneath ☼

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1882\. In the first of what will be two matters tartan, Holmes encounters a case where someone is being annoyed by a kilt, or more specifically by the kilt-wearer. The detective finds the answer somewhere rather low-down, and for once his client is far from happy with his solution.

_[Narration by Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Esquire]_

After helping out my good friend Inspector Hopkins I was minded to linger a little in the pleasant Borders county of Roxburghshire, partly because this was where Watson's mother had hailed from and although my friend was not overly fond of his Scottish roots he had spoken of this county with some affection. I knew that Mrs. Watson as well as my late stepmother the former Miss Mary Kerr had both come from Jedburgh to the east of here, and saw on the map that the county town of Roxburgh lay a little further on, near Kelso. I remembered reading back in Haddington that it was now merely a village and also Watson telling me that it was in his words 'shrunken', but decided that visiting it would give me something else to write to my friend about. His letters to me were intermittent – hardly surprising given the situation down there – but I had definitely detected a slight warming in their tone of late.

Or perhaps I just wished to think that.

Jedburgh was another pleasant little town of just the right size, and I enjoyed a week there before moving on. However at Roxburgh I encountered a problem – because apparently I was at the wrong Roxburgh! Fortunately the stationmaster at Roxburgh Junction where I had changed for the Jedburgh branch said that he could explain things.

“You want Old Roxburgh”, he said. “This is Roxburgh.”

 _That_ was an explanation? I looked at him in confusion.

“The place you want is over the Tweed at Kelso”, he said. “Take the Coldstream train and follow the signs; it's well marked.”

“Why are there two Roxburghs?” I asked, confused.

“The old town was once one of the biggest places in Scotland”, he said. “But when the English took back Berwick for the last time, that was it. No sea port, so no river trade. People drifted away, some to the abbey town of Kelso over the river. Jedburgh where you just came from is the county town† now; this place took the name Roxburgh for some reason. Confuses a few people.”

 _Me included_ , I thought ruefully as I thanked and tipped him. It was at times like this that I really missed having my own historical encyclopaedia around, but if I visited the old town I might find a postcard of it and I could send it with the one of Jedburgh. All those reminders of home had to make him miss it a bit, surely?

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There was very little left of the former county town when I reached it, just a ruined castle and.... that was pretty much it. Fortunately I found a postcard of it in Kelso, another pleasant small town where I booked myself in for a week. I liked this area.

It was my second full day in Kelso when I noticed something that was slightly amiss. I was walking down the Horsemarket when I saw a young fellow coming towards me. There seemed nothing particularly remarkable about him; he was about twenty-one years of age, a strawberry blond fellow with one of those stubble beards that came in and went out of fashion with bewildering regularity – but what was unusual was the reaction of people to him. Several of the looks that he got were bordering on the murderous, and I wondered just what terrible offence he had committed to have earned such disapprobation. 

I mentioned it to the hotel owner Mrs. Sheppard, and in between looking at me in a rather questionable manner that would doubtless have had a medical acquaintance of mine rolling his eyes, she nodded understandingly.

“Here”, she said, passing me what looked like a calendar.

I looked at it expectantly. It contained various shots of Scotsmen in kilts, all moderately good-looking I supposed, and the one on the front cover was the fellow from the town. He had been pictured standing on what was obviously the castle mound back in Roxburgh, grasping his kilt on what must have been a windy day because.... I shall just say that I was more than a little surprised at a Victorian printer having put out something this daring.

“People disapprove of the picture?” I asked.

“Not for the reason you're thinking of, dearie”, she said. “He's wearing the wrong kilt.”

I did not see anything particularly wrong with the kilt, which as far as I could tell was of a small black-and-white chequered design, and said so.

“Oh dearie”, she sighed. “That's an _English_ kilt.”

I was more than a little surprised, although in retrospect I suppose that I should not have been. I knew (because Watson so hated them and our friend Stamford had had a set) that the Northumberlanders had their own bagpipes, so it followed that they might have had their own kilts too.

“The Scots do not like the English kilts?” I asked.

“Especially not that one!” she said firmly. “That is a _Percy_ kilt!”

She made it sound like the wearer of such an item was committing some unspeakable crime against all Mankind! Unfortunately she was then distracted by a servant and had to leave, so my education in all things kilt stopped there.

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Fortunately Matthew, one of the waiters in the restaurant, was able to enlighten me further.

“You saw young Joss Percy”, he said. “He wears that kilt of his round town just to provoke people; bad of him but then he’s that sort of fellow. No harm in him really. If that calendar had not been published in London they would have known better than to put an Englishman on the front cover.”

“Mr. Percy is English, then?” I asked.

“Technically no”, he said, a little grudgingly I thought, “but he's a _Percy.”_

Again I had the impression that the kilted Scotsman had committed some egregious crime that I knew not. I stared at the waiter expectantly.

“Sorry”, he grinned. “I forget how insular we are up here. The Percies are the Earls of Northumberland, and their ancestors were forever raiding across the border and trying to grab this area for themselves. It all stopped with the Union of course, but people have long memories round here. For all that both his parents are Scots, Joss sees himself as English. Hence the kilt.”

I thanked and tipped him for the information. I knew that he was right in that; Watson as I said did not really like his Scots ancestry and considered himself entirely English, while Gregson's and LeStrade's superior the brooding Inspector Macdonald was similarly half-Scots who, while he looked every inch the barely-tamed clan warrior, was also entirely English. Inspector Hopkins on the other hand considered himself English and Scottish. Cultures were very strange.

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The following day I took a more careful note of just who was looking so angry with Mr. Percy and noted that he paused for some time outside the shop of Mr. Campbell, the butcher. A large fellow of about his own age came out and words were exchanged, but Mr. Percy walked away still smiling.

I did not smile when I saw the look that followed him, as I had seen that sort of look on a man's face before and knew what it likely portended. This needed looking into.

I followed Mr. Percy and caught up with him as he sat on the banks of the river. I sat down beside him.

“You must be my fellow Englishman, Mr. Holmes”, he said. “You are not in Kelso solving a murder, I hope?”

“No”, I said, “but from the way that that gentleman outside the butcher's shop was looking at you, I might soon well be. Yours, perhaps.”

He smiled easily at that.

“Mal Campbell is all mouth and kilt”, he said dismissively. “I know that he is twice my size, but you cannot think that he would harm me?”

“I have known people commit crime for lesser reasons”, I said warningly. “Take care, young sir.”

“I will”, he said lightly.

I very much feared, however, that he might not.

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I thought on the matter for some time, then came up with a rather novel – some might even say diabolical – solution. The calendar might have been printed in London but they would surely had to have used Scottish photographers, possibly even a local one as the shot was very clearly Roxburgh Castle. Some quick research showed that the photography shop in town had indeed been the one used, and a Mr. Stuart MacAndrew (no relation to our illustrious Montague Street landlady) told me that yes, he had been the fellow in question.

“There is something that I would like to know”, I said. “I do not understand much about technology, but I remember reading somewhere that you tell people to look severe because that is an easier position to hold than a smile. How then did you manage to catch Mr. Percy's kilt in mid-flight, so to speak?”

He blushed at that but answered.

“I know that they say the camera never lies”, he said, “but I had to bend the truth a little for that shot. It is actually a composite of three separate pictures; it was quite impressive of Mr. Percy to be able to hold the same facial expression for all three shots.”

I smiled at that.

“So if I wanted a specific photograph”, I said, “you could simply take enough shots to make it up and then print what is basically a lie?”

He looked at me curiously.

“I could, sir”, he admitted, “but why would I?”

“To stop a bully”, I said, “possibly from doing something very bad. Perhaps even fatal. May I see those original shots, please?”

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A few days later there was a meeting of the Women's Guild in the town, at which the ladies got to see many of the pictures that had not make the final cut, so to speak. One of them elicited particular interest.....

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The very next day I was stationed within sight of the butcher's shop waiting for Mr. Percy to saunter by in his English kilt. He appeared right on time and when he reached the shop, he paused. Once again Mr. Malcolm Campbell came out to challenge him.

What happened next was however not so normal. The butcher's wife, a huge Amazon of a woman who had terrified me the other day by simpering in my direction, came storming out and clipped her son round the ear. And as a startled Mr. Campbell fled back inside I noted that the usual glares were only coming from unaccompanied gentlemen; those with wives kept their thoughts very much to themselves.

Mr. Percy saw me and came over to sit on my bench.

“That was rather strange”, he said. “I will not say that people are more friendly today, but something has definitely changed.”

Well, if he would parade around town teasing people.... he had brought this partly on himself. But then as Watson often told his patients, it was all for his own good.

“I can explain why”, I said, “but I doubt that you are going to like it much.”

“What is it?” he asked.

“You know how they say that the camera never lies?” I asked.

“Yes?”

I opened the envelope I was holding and showed him the photograph inside it. He went rather pale. It showed him in his pose – except that the part of the kilt in front of him was very clearly protruding due to something extremely long underneath it.

“This was shown to the members of the Women’s Guild last night”, I told him. “I do not think that you will have much more trouble with the gentlemen of this town any more, or at least with most of them. The ladies, on the other hand.....”

He looked at me in horror, only now realizing why all the ladies who were passing us – several times in some cases – all had their eyes what might be called 'questionably low'!

“Oh my God, what have you done?”

I just sniggered. Watson would have been proud of me.

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All right, maybe it was just a little bad of me. But Mr. Percy immediately took to wearing trousers around Kelso, and even then he made sure that they were loose ones. Although that did not stop him getting propositioned during the following two weeks.

_Sixteen times!_

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_Notes:_   
_† Technically Inspector Hopkins had been wrong in that Newtown St. Boswells was the administrative centre of Roxburghshire, but the actual county town was Jedburgh._

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	6. Case 73: The Adventure Of Darnley's Ghost ☼

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1884\. The shadows of a royal death from the sixteenth century haunt a prestigious university and a man is driven to a nervous collapse – can a royal ghost still be vengeful some three centuries on? Holmes encounters one of the most horrible villains he has come across, but justice is done in the end.

_[Narration by Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Esquire]_

It was a strange thing that this case happened where it did, for despite being almost in the centre of Scotland's capital city the location still seemed absurdly quiet and peaceful. But appearances were to (again) prove deceptive and just as with poor Watson, past misdeeds could affect present actions. 

This case also introduced me to one of the least pleasant villains that I had ever had the displeasure to have to come across. And annoyingly, one with friends in high places who extricated him from the consequences of his misdeeds.

Unfortunately for said villain, karma was prepared to wait.

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Shortly after the Roxburghshire case had concluded I had received the long-expected if not overdue telegram from Miss St. Leger that the vultures of the London press were once more beginning to sniff round my friend's departure for Egypt, and that the sorry story of his traitorous grandfather would surely be across their front pages ere long. This was in some ways a good thing as I had planned to release the story soon anyway so that there would be plenty of time for the press to lose interest as they invariably would, but I still changed my course and headed to Edinburgh so that I would be just one train away from London when the story broke. It also enabled me to solve a most peculiar case where the criminal was not definitely what I had expected.

I have to say that Edinburghshire† did not impress me much. At Haddington I had seen the beginnings of the effects of being too close to the Scottish capital, and here the pleasant countryside of the Borders with its small towns and a feeling almost of Englishness gave way to a North British version of London, a growing mess of a city which was spreading its tentacles all around and turning the surrounding towns into smaller and equally unpleasant versions of itself. There was also a uniform greyness to the Scotch capital that I did not like, although I admit that the centre with its impressive Holyrood Palace was worth seeing.

I was fortunate that I did not have to worry about accommodation here as Father was a sponsor of the famous University, so I could easily secure a bed during my visit. It was a strange place, very close to the centre with all its attractions yet strangely cut off from the rest of the city, the students scurrying about with their many books (men _and_ women; the latter had been first admitted some seven years back). I was made very welcome there and settled in to enjoy my stay.

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It was mid-May and I had nearly seen all that I wished to see in and around the city (at least it served as an excellent transport hub). This was of course where Watson's brother Stephen had studied to become a lawyer; he had moved on but I had made sure that Miss St. Leger was keeping an eye on him for my friend especially as I knew that he wrote only infrequently to my friend. I had found myself smiling outside a tartan shop the other day, wondering whether my so very English friend would ever want to honour his Scottish roots and wear a kilt. Although now of course I knew that he could wear a Northumberland one. I wondered how he would look in it....

My brilliant brain was clearly having an off day, because with no warning it suddenly reminded me of my mother wearing her kilt. Horrors!

I had just about stopped shaking by the time I returned to the University where I found the House Master, a kindly old fellow called Mr. Eustace Grantham, waiting for me.

“I am sorry to trouble you, Mr. Holmes”, he said apologetically, “but a rather delicate matter has arisen over at King's and they asked if you could look into it?”

I was feeling disposed towards the place for the reception they had afforded me so answered in the affirmative, and Mr. Grantham told me that his equivalent at King's, a Mr. Samuel Gummer, was waiting to speak to me in the latter's rooms. Directions were provided so I went to see what I could do.

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The answer turned out to be something along the lines of 'have remembered to bring ear-plugs'! Mr. Samuel Gummer was very different from Mr. Grantham, ten years younger and a hundred years more boorish. I could well imagine that he had _demanded_ my assistance, as his tone was abrupt and his manner curt. I pitied the students who had to endure his tyrannical attitude.

“This is all stuff and nonsense of course”, he said dismissively. “It concerns our ghost.”

I wondered if I had heard him correctly.

“Your what, sir?” I asked.

“Ghost, man, our ghost!” he snapped as if I were being deliberately obtuse. “Damn thing has driven poor Mr. Carlton round the bend!”

I took a deep breath. As a consulting detective I had faced many clients, some of them ruder than this oaf. I was sure that I could get through the rest of this interview without strangling him. Fairly sure. If not, I knew rather better than most how to get away with murder.

“You will have to begin at the beginning, sir”, I said, forcing myself to be patient. “Who is this ghost and how exactly has it driven your Mr. Carlton to distraction?”

“Fellow's been carted off to the funny farm”, Mr. Gummer said. “Doubt he even saw the damn ghost with him being foreign and all, but what with that idiot Wrighton we have to be damn careful. Besides, Mr. Hanson is a friend of the Dean!”

I could feel my patience slipping away from me, despite my best efforts. I was clearly going to get little out of this waste of space except, perhaps, a headache worse than the one that I could already feel forming.

“I shall go and make inquiries right away!” I said firmly. “Thank you, sir.”

I rose to my feet and was out of the door before he could say anything. Not that I would have stopped if he had.

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Mr Grantham handed me a small whisky (I could have managed a larger one!) which I downed in one go while he smiled apologetically.

“Mr. Gummer affects most people like that”, he sighed. “I hoped given what he said to have been the seriousness of the situation that he might manage to control himself for once, but we are not it seems due a miracle.”

Despite my foul mood I smiled at that.

“Is there anyone I can see about this who could provide me with information?” I asked. “Preferably without my wishing to strangle them!”

He definitely hesitated before his answer.

“I would speak to Mr. Carlton's colleague Mr. Hanson first”, he said. “He is American and Mr. Carlton has an American mother, so they became friends over that. Then you might try Isles, the beadle. He is young for his post, but very observant.”

I do not know how, but although he did not change his tone I sensed that there was more to the words 'colleague' and 'friends’ than met the eye. And I would be proven right on that.

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Mr. Clint Hanson was a professor from the American South over here on a three-year exchange with his university (or college, as he called it) across the Atlantic. He was about forty years of age with salt-and-pepper hair and a set of wire spectacles over which he peered at me, but he radiated intelligence and, unlike rather too many of his countrymen, he knew not to speak three times louder than necessary to someone who was in the same room. I thought back to poor Watson's terrible cousin Constance whom he had been compelled to shout at in the middle of Trafalgar Square (I still had the newspaper article!) and smiled inwardly.

“A colleague of mine once told me that the past is often important in understanding the present”, I said, thinking again of my friend. “Mr. Gummer spoke of a ghost before I had to leave in order to avoid strangling him, as I supposed that that might have been considered a bad thing in some people's eyes. Perhaps. What can you tell me about this ghost, sir?”

The fellow smiled.

“I heard that story from almost everyone within a week of my getting here!” he said. “Somewhere beneath the grounds of this place are the foundations of a place called Kirk o' Field. It was there in 1567, before even the Pilgrim Fathers, that Lord Darnley was murdered.”

“Who was he?” I asked, thinking that Watson would have known at once.

“King Henry, the second husband of Mary Queen of Scots”, Mr. Hanson grinned. “Lord but I am glad I was not around in those times; Scotland was one hell of a dangerous place! She brought him here, then remembered she had to dance at someone’s wedding – it was nearly midnight at the time, but then they did things different in those days – and afterwards she went to Holyrood rather than come back here. That was when it happened; Kirk O’ Field was blown to kingdom come! Poor old Darnley must have heard something and gotten out in time because his and his manservant's bodies were both found dead some distance from the house - _strangled!”_

 _Not an effective cover-up, then_ , I thought dryly. Unless making it obvious had been the intention of the killers.

 _“Was_ she behind it?” I asked.

“No-one can be sure”, he said. “One of her men at court, James Lord Bothwell, likely did the deed and she helped cover it up by having the house destroyed – she had just appointed him sheriff of the city so as you can imagine there was no investigation. _Then she went and married him!_ That did for the pair of them; they lost a battle, he fled into exile and went mad, and she was forced to abdicate. She later escaped to England and got her head cut off about twenty years on. Not a happy ending, but few people got one in those days.”

“Mr. Carlton does not seem to be having a happy time just now”, I said. “Mr. Gummer seemed to think it was something to do with the ghost.”

There was the merest hint of a delay before he answered, but I still spotted it.

“I cannot think why Darnley would be haunting poor Chris”, he said. “He should be down in London going after the wife who had him killed, what with her buried in Westminster Abbey.”

“Mr. Gummer also mentioned someone called Wrighton”, I said. “Do you know anything about him?”

Mr. Hanson's face darkened at that.

“He is a student”, he said shortly. “I am not supposed to discuss students with outsiders, I am afraid sir.”

 _But you would like to have done_ , I thought. _I wonder why._

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Mr. Jack Isles, the beadle at King's, was a lot younger than even I had expected. He could not have been much more than thirty and wore a strange sort of boiler-suit that I had only ever seen Miss St. Leger wear before, primarily (I had always thought) to give her fellow promenaders an attack of the vapours when she took a walk in the Park. This fellow's black hair was cropped short on the sides but left normal on the top, a sort of tonsure in reverse that looked decidedly odd. He was however quite friendly, and ready to answer all my questions.

“I talked with Mr. Hanson about the strange case of his friend having to go into a sanatorium”, I said. “I cannot see why any ghost would wish to target him.”

He looked at me thoughtfully.

“Did he tell you about Lord Darnley and Rizzio?” he asked.

“Who?” I asked. I was certainly having a historical education in this case!

He smiled.

“I thought he might have left that bit out”, he said. “The reason for the Queen wanting to end husband number two. It wasn't just because he was a drunken layabout who she regretted marrying and could ditch now they had had a son. The year before, he had let a bunch of lords into their rooms so they could murder her hunky Italian secretary, David Rizzio. The story was that the kid she was then carrying was the Italian's, and that her husband was jealous.”

I frowned.

“I still do not see why the ghost should go after Mr. Carlton”, I said.

“Another bit of the story – may have been true or may not – was that just before all this went down Lord Darnley had been sleeping with someone else but they had broken up and it had ended badly. _And that someone had been one David Rizzio!”_

So Mr. Carlton and Mr. Hanson were indeed 'colleagues' and ‘friends’. Ah. 

“Putting to one side the difficulties of securing a case against someone who has been dead for over three centuries”, I said, “where does your student Wrighton come into this?”

His face darkened even more than Mr. Hanson's had done.

“Mr. Storm Wrighton is a black student, over here from Africa, sir”, he said heavily. “He did not like Mr. Hanson or Mr. Carlton. _At all!”_

He looked meaningfully at me, and I understood his unspoken meaning. This case had suddenly moved in both a surprising and a frankly unpleasant direction.

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The following day I arguably bent the University's rules ever so slightly by going with Mr. Isles and searching Mr. Wrighton's room. Fortunately as a visiting student he had a tiny one all to himself, and even better, of the eight objects I found Mr. Isles was able to clearly identify five of them. Some further searching elsewhere took longer but yielded similarly damaging results. For someone.

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Since I did not want Mr. Gummer involved in this if I could help matters (if only to avoid the temptation to throttle the fellow), I approached the Dean and asked if he might bring Mr. Wrighton in for an interview. The African was a tall and elegant fellow in his early twenties, bald and with round spectacles that gave him an earnest appearance. But then as I well knew, criminals came in all sorts of different sizes and strange disguises.

“We are investigating this matter concerning Mr. Carlton”, the Dean said. “We are I have to tell you quite concerned, and it is essential that we know if he has done anything the least bit untoward. We have received information that he has not been on the best terms with you, and I wished to ask you if you have anything to say on that.”

Mr. Wrighton looked at me briefly before dismissing me as unimportant. I did not tolerate such looks from the nobility and I certainly would not take them from this villain. I bided my time.

“Both he and Mr. Hanson, his _special_ friend, have been _foul!”_ the student said coldly. “Always when no-one is around of course; they both hate me because I am black.”

The Dean frowned.

“Why did you say 'special' friend?” he asked.

“They seem too close for _real_ gentlemen”, Mr. Wrighton sniffed. “Still, perhaps in this nation such a thing is deemed acceptable. It certainly would not be in mine!”

“What sort of thing?” the Dean asked, clearly nonplussed.

“They have sex with each other!” Mr. Wrighton almost spat out. “Vile!”

“You have proof of that?” I asked.

He snorted disdainfully at me.

“Everyone round here knows!” he said.

“Unless you have direct proof, I shall have to ask you to withdraw that accusation”, the Dean said frostily. “I would remind you that a gentleman falsely maligned in such a way is perfectly entitled to bring a legal action in order to clear his name, and without proof the courts would certainly rule against you.”

“So be it”, Mr. Wrighton said. “But we all know. It is a crime.”

“Like stealing?” I asked innocently.

He covered it well but there was definitely a flinch.

“Stealing what?” he asked.

I smiled, stood up and walked across to the tea-trolley at the side of the desk from which I removed the cloth. When he saw what was beneath it his ebony face went impressively pale.

“You should recognize these little baubles, Mr. Wrighton”, I said. “They are all the property of Mr. Carlton – _yet they were all found in your room!_ You must have some intelligence to have secured yourself a place at this prestigious institution, so I am sure that you can guess the next question,. But if you cannot - _how did they all get in there?”_

He struggled for some seconds before he went for the obvious.

“You planted them!” he said, a look of triumph in his dark eyes. “You are a racist too!”

I shook my head at him.

“Mr. Isles?” I asked.

“What?”

“I made sure that your beadle was with me when I searched your room earlier....”

“You invaded my privacy....”

“He also did me the courtesy of asking around his fellow beadles”, I said. “I am sure that you will be able to explain why you obtained for yourself a set of keys to the small room adjoining Mr. Carlton's quarters, which someone has very clearly been using rather a lot lately and which has a useful connecting door. Do we have to have the police in to test it for fingerprints?”

The student rose sharply to his feet.

“Sir, your University is unfit for someone of my morals!” he said acidly. “I am leaving!”

He strode quickly to the door and pulled it open, only to fall back in shock. Mr. Hanson was outside in his cricket whites – _and with his bat!_

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Postscriptum: I was not at all surprised when the same connections which had obtained Mr. Wrighton his place at the University were instrumental in very swiftly securing his removal from the place instead of a prison sentence. Still I would settle for him being some less fortunate country's problem, provided that that country was on another continent. 

Karma, it seemed, had other ideas and was not to be denied. Mr. Wrighton had to take a small ship back to his homeland and, almost inevitably, his attitude greatly annoyed the sailors on board. So they placed two of their number in the room next to him and the two had very loud sex all the way to the Canary Islands where, owing to a _terrible_ misunderstanding, they misinformed their unwelcome passenger about their departure time and left without him! I understand that he later made it to the United States where he was shot while crossing to California after he had annoyed one too many people. As Watson would have so rightly said, oh dear how sad never mind!!

Mr. Carlton made a swift recovery once he understood the reason for his troubles, and three years later when his friend's time in Scotland came to an end he accompanied him back across the wide open sea. There was a strange symmetry in that the day they reached New York was when Mr. Wrighton met his deserved end. Karma not only usually gets it right but sometimes has a sense of humour, too!

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_Notes:_   
_† Later Midlothian_

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	7. Interlude: Front Page News

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1884\. The excrement finally impacts on the air circulation facility.

_[Narration by Doctor John Watson, M.D.]_

I still find it frankly incredible how something as basic as communication has changed so much in a single century, and even in my own lifetime. At the start of the 1800s there was a fairly reliable mail service between the big cities but communicating to anyone who lived beyond those took days if not weeks. Then came the penny post and railways to speed letters to the recipient in hours, or a couple of days at most. And soon after there came the telegraphic system which meant that news could be around the world as fast as someone could click away at a post-office.

Which was brilliant – because it meant that when everything went to hell in a handcart a thousand miles away in London, I got to hear about it almost instantly. Is not technology _wonderful?_

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It was only on reflection that I could see what happened as a good thing, because it certainly did not feel like it at the time. Following the shocking revelation about my traitorous grandfather Lieutenant Sacheverell Watson the year before – Lord, I had been gone for over a year! - and just as bad, the agony of finding out that Holmes had kept it from me, I had known that news of my links to that villain were bound to come out sooner rather than later; indeed given that my cousin had warned me that journalists had been sniffing round the story on his return to England I was frankly surprised that it had taken this long and had wondered if Holmes was in some way behind that. As I said, it was probably for the best that they came out at this time so people could discuss the matter over their breakfasts in the knowledge that however foul his ancestor, John Hamish Watson was already some way through his penance, working for the British Army in Egypt. So at least he was Doing The Right Thing, and surely given time it would all be forgotten.

_Probably about the same time that I flew in on the next pig from Egypt!_

It certainly did not feel like 'a good thing' back in 'Eighty-Four, as a string of telegrams from Holmes kept me abreast of how the story was unfolding. The newspapers were to my relief all supportive, and only two of the society magazines were critical. Fortunately the owners of both publications had ‘visits’ from Lady Holmes after which they saw the error of their ways and, not coincidentally, also saw the inside of a hospital. She had been Furious or, as my friend Mrs. Thompson liked to call it, a Level Eight. I should also remark that both owners made full recoveries, even if one immediately retired and the other went to Ireland to became a monk!

Holmes had been sending me postcards from some of the places he was taking cases in, which I had enjoyed receiving despite the delay. At first I marvelled at the fact he seemed to going a lot further afield than usual – there had been some from Wales and then Scotland – and only a letter from Mrs. Hudson in response to my writing to her clarified that he was not in Baker Street at all, preferring to roam the British Isles. That had made me worry; London had always been his home so why was he suddenly so itinerant?

As if my problems at home were not bad enough I was also concerned about the situation here, where General Charles Gordon had marched to the key city of Khartoum down in Sudan but had now been besieged for some three months, with no sign of any relief coming. I began to fear that Mr. Gladstone's wish to save money might prove the undoing of the Empire, as the religious zealots under the Mahdi† showed no sign of weakening their grip on the place. The men I treated here were also depressed, feeling that their chances of securing a decisive victory were low or none.

My life was, like the situation here, a mess. And I missed Holmes.

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_Notes:_   
_† A title which translates loosely as 'guiding one', rather than a specific person. Muhammad Ahmad (1845-1885) was the man in question._

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	8. Case 74: The Adventure Of The Gala Gala ☼

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1884\. It is a quick dash to the capital for Holmes as the newspapers (and worse, the society magazines that a certain friend of his never ever read) finally uncover Watson's Waterloo connection. The fearsome Lady Holmes helps to put things to rights, but when she starts looking dangerously like wanting him to read one of her terrible stories, it is an even quicker dash back to Scotland for her younbgest son and a resumption of his Caledonian capers, where a gypsy rogue assists him in giving two ladies a most memorable experience.

_[Narration by Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Esquire]_

I was actually packing my things at the University when the telegram from Luke reached me. Someone had talked, and everyone was about to discover that the doctor-author of the chronicles of the country's most brilliant consulting detective had a dark past, specifically the sort of antecedent that one cannot lop off from the family tree much as one might have wished so to do.

As I have said it was probably a good thing that the story broke when it did, as it left nearly two years before Watson's scheduled return for the whole thing to die down. People would see that my friend was not only nothing like his traitorous ancestor; he was actually serving the British Army and in some way making amends for past familial misdeeds. However at the time I (belatedly) saw and was terrified by something else which I never mentioned to him, namely that this scandal might incline him to stay on out there where the political situation looked, as Luke put it in his latest report, 'unfavourable'.

_(I had sent back that he really needed to use language better, and he, bastard that he was, had replied that he saved his most explicit language for the visits of a certain London fruiterer. A London fruiterer who would be arriving next time with a double bumper bag of ‘supplies’. That would teach my cousin!)_

I rushed straight back to London and set things in motion, having Miss St. Leger list which papers were giving positive coverage and which might need a little 'encouragement' to do the same. Most were brought on board but two of the less salubrious society magazines were more difficult, and had to be Visited by Mother (they do say that all is fair in love, war and journalism). However both the owners made full recoveries after long stays in a sanatorium, although one had to immediately retire on health grounds while the other decided that life in an Irish monastery was for him. Strange how Mother had that sort of effect on people…..

For once I gave thanks that modern journalists had the attention span of the average gnat, and even given that people were on edge over a bout of Irish terrorist attacks one of which had been aimed at Nelson's Column (incredibly one of these groups had sent someone round to Mother for financial help presumably based on her Irish background, but had gotten a sharp word, the knowledge that the pistol she kept in her reticule was always loaded, and that she always aimed her first shot where she knew that it would hurt the most!).

Watson would doubtless have snarked that they should have considered themselves lucky that she did not read them one of her stories, the bastard!

By early July it was clear that Doctor John Hamish Watson's traitorous grandfather was of interest only to wrap fish-and-chips, and I was able to send my friend a message that all was well again. In fact I was in rather more danger than him as Mother had been inspired by my Scottish wanderings into a story called 'Six Feet Under', about a huge monster in Loch Ness which lurked just below the surface of the water and used its tentacles to..... safe to say I was not taking a boat out on _that_ stretch of water, or even going anywhere near the edges for that matter. And using the facts that Scotsmen wore kilts to grab them there.... ugh! So with the story apparently only needing a final edit, Scotland beckoned again and I answered its call. 

Damn quickly!

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I called in on a friend of mine in York – I hoped to have a case here or north of here some day as I was sure that Watson would want to see the famous Minster – before continuing via Berwick to Melrose, a pleasant little market town where I enjoyed a couple of days just walking around and doing very little. A telegram from my friend caught me up there and he sounded happy with the way that things were going, so that made me happy. I desperately wanted to ask if he had made plans to return when his three years were up but, coward that I was, I could not find a way to word it without seeming desperate (which I was). 

I changed at Galashiels a little further on and took the branch down to Selkirk, another pleasant small town. The Borders seemed full of such places, which had grown to just the right size and seemed a world apart from the grim sprawl of Edinburgh. Selkirkshire's county town kept me entertained for some three days before I returned, the only disappointment being that Abbotsford, the home of the famous writer Sir Walter Scott which lay right next to the railway, was closed to the public for some reason (as I said I evinced little interest in such buildings as a rule, but I wanted to mention the place when next writing to my friend. I then continued back to Galashiels just in time for – a gala!

Galashiels was one of the larger ones that I had come across in the Borders although not appreciably so, and sits like so many on the River Tweed. The bulk of the town is on the south bank of the river and in Selkirkshire, but a small part that includes the railway station is on the north which is part of Roxburghshire. Geography is Watson's interest much more than mine but I mention this fact because it would be relevant to what was about to unfold.

I chose to stay in a small hotel near to the station which was on the north side of the river, as I was coming to quite enjoy walking and unfortunately – well, sort of unfortunately – I had stayed at Baker Street for most of my time in London. Mrs. Hudson had decided that I was far too thin even given my height, so I had had a full breakfast with lots of bacon every morning. Hence I had to do a lot of walking to work off those extra pounds; I wished to look my best for.... well, because.

I asked the hotel owner, a pleasant young fellow called Mr. Ian Race, about the forthcoming gala.

“Forthcoming catastrophe more like!” he snorted.

“Why do you say that?” I asked.

“Have you seen the ironmonger's shop in town?”

That seemed an odd _segue_ , but for now I went with it.

“Yes”, I said. “The curiously named Mr. Dymock-Eldington's shop. Why?”

“His daughters are on one of the floats as the Three Graces”, he snorted. “Two of them – Amelia and Emily – hate each other something fierce, and worst of all they're from opposite sides.”

“Opposite sides of what?” I asked, confused.

“Of the river”, he said. “Amelia's from this side and she never lets anyone forget that she's a Roxburgher even though that's only because she married Mr. MacTaggart's youngest, Tom. Don't know what the boy did in a previous life to deserve that, but it must've been bad!”

I bit back a smile. 

“She does not get on with her sister?” I asked.

“Odd thing is that they both support that women’s suffrage thing but can’t stand each other”, he said. “I suppose they both want to be in charge; all I can say is they’re doing more harm than good to their cause in this town at least. The only hope is they have a barney while crossing the river and push each other in!” he said. “Poor Cissie – Cecily, their middle sister – being on a float with those two all afternoon. Hope she's got good ear-plugs!”

It really was terrible, how catty some people were round here. Watson would have loved them!

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The gala was to be held on a Sunday, and on the Friday before many of those involved were meeting presumably to make sure that everything was in order. I decided to go by the town hall and take a look at things.

Mr. Rice had if anything understated the sheer awfulness of the butcher’s daughters. I could actually hear two siren voices screeching at each other as I was still on the bridge, and when I got there I found the two harridans were indeed the source of the racket. I had no idea which was which, but Mrs. Amelia MacTaggart and Miss Emily Dymock-Eldington were both young women of about twenty years of age, and both inclined to think that the more make-up they could shovel onto their unlovely visages, the better (as the old saying goes, a paper bag would have been cheaper and the best of all!). The third girl therefore had to be Miss Cecily Dymock-Eldington, particularly as when no-one was looking she would utter up a quiet prayer. Most likely for a couple of well-aimed lightning strikes to make her minus a couple of sisters!

I thought for a little while then went off to the railway station, where fortunately there was a train that would get me to Edinburgh and back again in a day. Once in the capital I took a cab and was soon back at the University where I sought out Mr. Hanson whom I had recently assisted. He was clearly surprised to see me but was most helpful, and it was singularly fortunate that his speciality was chemistry.

“I shall need to borrow one of your students for tonight and tomorrow”, I told him. “Preferably one whose looks are, as some writers are wont to say, swarthy.”

“Guy, Mr. Jackson”, he said at once. “I have often thought that some children grow into the names chosen by their parents, and he certainly has as I have never seen him even remotely tidy. But he is a good fellow and would be up for this sort of lark. He will be out of class in” - he looked at the clock on the mantle-piece – about fifteen minutes, so I just have time to make up your witch's brew.”

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Mr. Jackson's parents had indeed chosen his Christian name well; he looked almost as untidy as I had been before losing Watson had made me buck my ideas up. But he was a stout-hearted fellow and once I had explained everything to him he was more than up for it, especially as it would give him a free weekend in the Borders. I had been concerned that he might be slightly offended that I was taking advantage of his looks, but he was not.

“My father hates it!” he grinned as our train headed back to Selkirkshire. “But Mother is all for free expression as well as hopelessly untidy herself, and I have never had any trouble at the University. Except with Wrighton of course, but no-one liked him.”

The student who had tried to destroy Mr. Hanson's friend Mr. Carlton, I recalled. There really was little link between a fellow's exterior and interior; only the late Lord Tobias Hawke and his son Mr. Harry Buckingham – my half-brother and half-nephew – had been beautiful both inside and out. Not forgetting of course my own Watson.

It really was dusty in this compartment.

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On Saturday Mr. Jackson went off to do his work while I went down to Sir Walter Scott's house at Abbotsford (I had found that the reason it had been closed when I had passed it earlier had been a small fire, but all was well and it was open once more). I wondered idly if people would be lauding the works of Doctor John Hamish Watson fifty years after my friend had passed, discussing his excellent stories about his brilliant, talented and supremely modest friend Mr. Sherlock Holmes.

Apparently it _is_ possible to hear an eye-roll from over a thousand miles away!

Mr. Jackson rejoined me that evening to say that his mission had been accomplished, and that he was looking forward to the morrow to see the results of my little scheme. He then adjourned to his hotel; I had naturally put him in the best that Galashiels had to offer. Having had to meet those two harridans one after the other, he had more than deserved it!

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Sunday dawned grey and overcast, but fortunately the clouds soon lifted and by the time morning service was done and everyone could adjourn to start the procession, the sun was shining. Which was excellent as it would only speed things along. 

Mr Jackson and I secured ourselves a position just south of the bridge, since the procession was set to cross the river immediately and make a tour of the north bank before spending the bulk of its time going around the main town south of the river. Sure enough there was the float with the Three Graces on it; I had done a little research on the subject and smiled to myself as they approached. On the front of the float was Mrs. Amelia MacTaggart as Thalia, goddess of youth and beauty (ahem!). In the middle was her sister Cecily who was Euphrosyne, goddess of mirth, and at the back was the tall figure of the youngest Dymock-Eldington Emily as Aglaea, goddess of elegance (ahem again!).

It was clear before they reached us that something was wrong, and both the elder sisters were clearly puzzled at the uproarious laughter that their float was eliciting. Had either of them turned round seen their middle sister more than living up to her character's name and struggling to contain her mirth, they might have put two and two together, but the float was fortuitously long with a mock Greek temple in the middle of it so neither of the elder sisters could see the other. Which was just as well – _for both had bright purple faces!_

“One of Mr. Hanson's special brews that works with sunlight!” Mr. Jackson chuckled as the laughter only intensified. “The Martians have landed!”

That was a touch cruel perhaps, but then I had asked around and not one person, man or woman, had had a good word to say about the elder sisters. They were now clearly puzzled by the hilarity they were engendering, while Cecily Dymock-Eldington had collapsed and was rocking with laughter in the ‘temple’. Goddess of mirth indeed!

The float passed on but I knew that it would be back in about half an hour or so, and was prepared to wait. Besides, I had another little surprise for the sisters.

The Dymock-Eldington sisters' float was the third one in the procession, and as they returned across the bridge each stopped in turn to allow a photographer who had set up at the side of the road to do his work. The two sisters were clearly angry now at people laughing at them, but had not yet caught sight of each other – at least until they stopped for the photograph and Miss Emily Dymock-Eldington hastened round to the front of the float in order to be fully in the picture. I had fortunately warned the photographer what was afoot and he quickly took his first photograph before she could reach her sister and.....

Those screams were _loud!_

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Mr. Jackson returned to his studies in Edinburgh with my thanks and a generous payment that would, I knew, go solely towards his studies (for all the fellow looked the gypsy rogue Mr. Hanson had told me that he was in fact a model student). I very much doubted that either of the siren sisters would be plaguing the citizens of this beautiful town with their whining for some time, especially after I made sure that the newspaper displayed pictures of their embarrassment all too prominently, I also took great pleasure in writing to Watson about what I had done.

I believe that Miss Cecily Dymock-Eldington stopped laughing _eventually!_

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	9. Case 75: The Adventure Of The Field-Bazaar ☼

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1884\. Who is using innuendo to embarrass the great but apparently not that good of Peebles-shire? And why are they targetting other seemingly innocent people? Holmes finds an answer to a prayer and is relieved to hear more news of his friend.

_[Narration by Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Esquire]_

After my success in what Watson would doubtless have called The Adventure Of The Siren Sisters, I was about to leave Galashiels and continue westwards when I had a very bad moment, courtesy of my friend. The hotel-owner remarked that he had recognized Watson's name in an Edinburgh newspaper he had just read, and I had a frantic rush to buy one before I realized that there had been no need to panic. Quite the reverse; far from a renewal of that unseemly interest in my friend's ancestors, he had saved the life of one Captain James Leeds who had been injured in an ambush while out on patrol. Captain Leeds was a scion of a renowned military family; his cousin Captain Matthew was out there as well. I was pleased that the newspapers had something good to say about Watson as that surely made his return in what was now little over a year and a half even more likely. 

I could have no idea then as to just what consequences would arise from my friend's links to that family.

I was really enjoying my travels through Scotland, and felt not the slightest inclination to return to London especially as Carl had warned me in his last letter that Mother was now working on a five-volume story about an Irish servant called 'The Handmaid's Tale in which there was a large shillelagh and.... I had thrown his letter into the fire at that point as for some strange reason I still valued my sanity! Instead I journeyed on into Peebles-shire, spent a pleasant few days in Innerleithen then made the county town of Peebles itself which was also in the Tweed Valley. Another small and charming town where I felt at peace; surely there could be nothing here that would warrant my interest?

One day. One day I would learn.

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I lasted two days in Peebles before I ran into something. I had finished breakfast – it just happened to have been bacon and more bacon – when the landlady brought me my coffee. She seemed oddly distracted and I asked why.

“It's Thursday!” she said.

Apparently that meant something important. I stared at her in confusion, and got a look back that would have annoyed someone currently a thousand miles away. 

“The 'Field-Bazaar'!” she exclaimed, placing my coffee down before waddling away.

I stared after her in confusion, What was all that about?

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The High Street in which the hotel was situated was long and straight, ending in a T-junction at the town hall where the right-hand turning almost immediately crossed the river. A little way to the left was the town church, which I thought looked rather grim from the outside but proved cool and welcoming once I was through the doors. I had noticed as I had been walking through the town that there seemed to be a lot of people about for a weekday morning, and that most of them seemed to have been gathered in groups discussing something or other. Local gossip most likely.

The rector of this church was a tall fellow called Mr. Reginald Mallard and we fell to talking. I asked him about the curious behaviour of some of his flock.

“It is Thursday!” he said resignedly.

I stared at him. Was there some sort of strange Borders practice or other associated with that particular day of the week? He smiled at my bewilderment.

“For the last two months, the good and not so good folk of Peebles have come to dread this day”, he said. “Especially the not so good. It is the day that The Field-Bazaar is published.”

“A newspaper?” I asked.

“It _was_ just a trade magazine”, he said, “published by a small company out on the road west into Lanarkshire. Advertisements for various shops and businesses; nothing the least bit exciting.”

“But?” I prompted. I knew that there had to be more than that.

“About two months ago they started a new feature”, he said. “The bigwigs in and around the town live in fear of 'Baz', whoever he is. It is not what he says that terrifies them, but what he does not say.”

He saw my continued befuddlement and told me to wait a moment while he fetched a copy of the last edition of said magazine. It was indeed the sort of glossy trash that most people would look briefly at before throwing it on the fire, but inside the front cover I found the article by this 'Baz':

_'I am pleased to note that Lord and Lady Carstairs care so well for all their staff, regardless of nationality or status. For example, I see that they have most generously paid for an Italian girl who had been working for them to return to her homeland, something that few would do these days. Why, their son Charles, who I am sure is not the rake so many claim him to be, wanted to go with her and see her safely all her way there – he does insist on taking things all the way, I am told – but alas! his forthcoming marriage to Mr. St. John MacLean's daughter Fiona means that his attentions must be directed elsewhere at this time. We all know that every gentleman's first duty is always to the next generation, do we not?'_

I frowned, although I had to admire the cleverness with which the article had been penned. There was just enough innuendo to imply the real reason for the maid's sudden departure and that Mr. Charles was likely gone all the way with her in a non-geographical sense of the phrase, but not enough to allow for any legal action on the part of the sort-of accused. Although no family with sense would have tried such a thing; the publicity would have been ten times worse with all Scotland learning of the family's problems, not just Peebles-shire.

“So this person is targeting the so-called great and the good of this county?” I asked.

“Almost exclusively”, he said. “The only exception was three weeks ago when this rogue made a quite impossible inference that the new vicar over at St. Columba's, Mr. Cotton, cheated at cards. Quite out of the question!”

I ruminated on the fact that the cheating at cards thing would probably have earned more Disapprobation Points than the suddenly departed maid, such were the social _mores_ at the time.

“Can someone not approach the publisher of this magazine?” I asked.

He shook his head.

“Old Mr. Gates”, he said. “In my position I am of course not supposed to speak ill of anyone, but he is I am afraid the original old curmudgeon.”

“You think that he is behind it?” I asked.

“That is very unlikely”, he said. “He is almost illiterate. I did wonder about his eldest son Graham who is not the most pleasant of characters, but he is up in Edinburgh just now.”

I reflected that that would not preclude that fellow from organizing something like this, especially with railways and modern printing methods. I also suspected that by describing the absent Mr. Graham Gates as 'not the most pleasant of characters', my interlocutor was likely understating things somewhat.

“This sounds most curious”, I said. “Thank you for telling me about it, sir.”

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My initial thought was that this Mr. Graham Gates was likely involved in some way, especially when I learned later that morning that while he was he eldest son he had two younger brothers, and their father had not yet decided on who would get what when he passed. I therefore decided to wait until the afternoon, when the next edition of The Field-Bazaar would start appearing in the town.

I was fortunate in that the magazine arrived early and a copy was delivered to the hotel just as I was finishing dinner, which may or may not have involved bacon. The hotel-owner, knowing of my interest in the matter and himself being busy, kindly passed it to me so I could read it first..... oh.

_'One must not understate the philanthropy of the younger generation which I see so often and unfairly decried in so-called newspapers these days. For example, concerning a certain printer in this town whose eldest son is currently away in the capital. I have an understanding that this young gentleman is most generous with his moneys when it comes to those beneath him. No matter how dubious the virtue of those he encounters, he is always prepared to, ahem, mollify matters to the best of his ability. And he always goes into such things very deeply indeed.'_

So now Mr. Graham Gates was being targetted. No man with any sense would levy such an allegation against himself to deflect attention as even the hint of such a thing risked social exile. It could not seemingly be either of his brothers from what I had learned that morning; one was away in the United States while the other was married to a lady who, in the description of the shop-owner who had told me about her, was more moral than the Archbishop of Canterbury and kept her husband very firmly in line.....

My eyes widened. Well! That was.... different!

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That afternoon I went over to St. Columba's Church to see if I could find the other non-noble target of this 'Baz', Mr. Ambrose Cotton. I found him soon enough; he was a tall, blond fellow whose skin was so pale that he was almost an albino. There was almost something otherworldly about him, as if he was only semi-attached to reality. I blamed my mother’s stories for my brain casually reminding me that no-one knew that I was here and they he could likely dispose of my body with ease!

“I noted that this scurrilous magazine is in the habit of making accusations that, while they may or may not be true, often have at least some foundation”, I said, trying not to think of the spade I had seen in the churchyard on the way in. “Had they not, then surely those targetted would surely have sued. Is there anything to what they claimed about you, sir?”

He smiled serenely at me. I did not back away from him, although I may have shifted my position rearwards very slightly. Because.

“Before I became a man of the cloth I was a skilled card-sharp, sir”, he said easily. “On the rough streets of Glasgow it was a living, and I made enough to get myself trained up as a priest. I can assure you that I have not practised such things for many a year now.”

I looked at him shrewdly.

“Why did you become a priest in particular?” I asked. “With money you could have entered any profession, most of which pay far more.”

He smiled again in that dreamy way of his.

“About six years back I had..... I do not like the word but I suppose you would call it a revelation”, he said. “Before I targetted anyone I came across, but after it I only went after those who had obtained their moneys through means that may have been legal but had been far from moral.”

I was finally beginning to see how this had been done.

“I am not normally a betting man”, I said slowly, “but I am prepared to wager that if I sent those magazine articles away to be analysed by a language expert, and I sent that same person a set of your own writings, they would write back to me that all was written by the same person.”

He looked at me blankly. I had just accused him of running a scandal-sheet and he quite obviously did not care.

“And?” he said dryly. “What harm am I doing, sir?”

He had me there, damnation! Nothing that he had said had been untrue, and the behaviour of those in his articles had certainly merited condemnation, of the sort that those in high society are usually very skilled at avoiding.

“You wrote about yourself to deflect suspicion”, I said. “But why your employer’s son, Mr. Graham Gates?”

The vicar shuddered.

“He is a brute who left one of the men that he slept with badly bruised from his 'attentions'”, he said angrily. “I do not choose my targets only among the great and the so-called good, Mr. Holmes; I choose them because they fail to live up to the standards that they claim to. I have said nothing untrue, nor will I.”

Seeing the fanaticism on his young face I could actually believe it. 

“What about the money?” I asked. “I know that sales of the paper have soared since your articles started appearing.”

He gestured to the Poor Box in the wall.

“I take no income from my pen”, he said. “Mr. Gates pays me in cash and it all goes in there.”

“Mr. Gates did not mind what you said about his son and heir?” I wondered.

“He had long suspected about Graham, and what I found out only served to confirm it”, he said. “Well? What are you going to do about me, Mr. Holmes?”

That was a damnably good question. What _could_ I do? The fellow had done nothing illegal, and had not caused harm to anyone who quite frankly did not deserve it. I knew more than most that his sort of writings had a huge audience out there, including a certain medical acquaintance of mine who kept the magazines that he secretly bought in his bedside cabinet. His locked bedside cabinet, but when I was curious no lock would keep me out.

“Just take care”, I advised. “Some people are.... well, people.”

“I know, Mr. Holmes”, he smiled.

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Postscriptum: The Field-Bazaar continued to host the mysterious 'Baz' for another six months after my departure before it was announced that he would be away from the area for many months at a time thereafter, but would occasionally pop back and pen an additional article now and again. I was sure that the great and the not so good of Peebles-shire were so grateful for that. Except possibly a certain rich couple from the south side of town who... save to say I really, _really_ hoped that 'naked kite-flying' had been just a metaphor! I mean, how would you... where would you.... ugh!

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	10. Interlude: Highlander

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1884\. Some people are just tiresome.

_[Narration by Lady Aelfrida Holmes]_

It really was annoying of Randall to come round and make those uncalled for remarks about my sweet little Sherry-werry 'hiding' up in Scotland just to avoid helping him whenever he snapped his fingers. I had been struggling to find something new to write about then he adds to my worries with his Attitude, let alone his baleful presence. Plus I had just had the room cleaned, which meant that I had to vacate it while the maids mopped up the blood. So inconsiderate!

Eddie interrupted my musings by sticking his head around the door.

“Doctor Greenwood says that I am a little better”, he said, “and he has some drops at his house that he thinks might help. As he lives not far from the Trafalgar I think that I might call and collect them from him on my walk, to save him a trip.”

“That would be nice, dear”, I smiled. I liked the cheerful, young, handsome and charming friend of dear Doctor Watson, especially as he was so attentive to Eddie. It was a pity that he had diagnosed my husband as not needing any stress to his hearing which, he had explained, meant that it would be better if he did not listen to any more of my stories as they might incite strong emotions. Everyone says that my stories always incite some very strong emotions.

“I thought that Randall was coming over, dear?” he asked.

“That was what the ambulance was for”, I said, testily. “He said some cruel things about my sweet little Sherry-werry up in Scotland, but at least there was no blood on the rug this time.”

“That means he will be laid up for a few days then”, he said. “Talking of Scotland, perhaps he might spend it editing that Caledonian story of yours that you said needed looking at, 'Highlander'.”

“Ah yes, the one where the Highland Games acquired several interesting new events”, I said, smiling in reminiscence. “As well as rather fewer layers of clothing. I think to show that I am not upset with him that much, I will visit this evening and read the first part to him so that he can get a flavour of it”

“I am sure that he will be very grateful”, he said. “I must be off, dear.”

He kissed me goodbye and left. He was of course right; Randall should know that I was only Mildly Irritated with him, a Level One as dear Anna called it. I might even wear the kilt when I visited him; Eddie always said that he had never seen anything quite like it! And I would call on dear Campbell as well, such a wonderful source of inspiration for my stories even if the poor boy is so overworked that he never has time to read any of them. Such a shame. Perhaps he might have an idea for my next story.

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He did, the smart boy. A most excellent one† about cod-pieces into which I could work dear Lucifer’s friend Mr. Jackson-Giles. From those trousers he would certainly fill one…. and I could set it in medieval England….. yes….

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_Notes:_   
_† Later inflicted on the world as ‘The Medieval Minotaur’, in which instead of the hero (Benji) not losing his way in a maze by leaving a trail of string behind him, he simply unfurled some part of his anatomy…._

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	11. Case 76: The Adventure Of The Biggar Man ☼

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1884\. Holmes has to find a way to extract an unhappy young man from his horrible family, so that the fellow can be well paid to stand around naked with people gawping at him. As you do.

_[Narration by Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Esquire]_

Not all the solutions to the cases I investigated were perfect – the recent matter of 'The Field Bazaar' had been one such – but sometimes things just fell into place. Indeed my next case was one where the solution was immediately obvious, but securing it was rather more difficult. Fortunately I effected a solution in which a deserving young man found the happiness that he fully merited.

When I had returned to the University to seek help from Mr. Hanson over the Galashiels matter, he had asked me to keep an eye out on my travels for a certain type of gentleman that the institution needed. The anatomy department wanted a fellow of exceptional muscle definition, young and preferably very tall. It was a pity that several of my stepbrother Campbell's boys were several hundred miles too far away and I thought particularly of the irrepressible Benji. He and his wife had one son, his namesake, with a second child due this November so the behemoth was likely all of a dither as he got under stress. Luke, being the sort of cousin who overshared like his life depended on it, had said that he had barely survived his lover's angst after young Ben's birth and he was already dreading this autumn (the liar!). 

Luke had also said that he would be laying by funds in lieu of a birthday present for each child, to be given to them when they reached twenty-one. He was a good sort, for all his failings as a sort of cousin, and I only hoped that Benji let him reach the end of the year in one piece! I wondered if Benji had mentioned to him yet that he and Bertha were looking to have at least twelve children, but decided that knowing my cousin he would surely have shared that with me – and would also have taken out good life-insurance!

In my very next port of call after leaving Peebles I was to encounter another example of muscled Mankind at its finest, perfect for what Mr. Hanson wanted. The only problem – the several problems – was that he had a family. And by family I mean my version of family, the sort that makes you think longingly about roping certain brothers together before pushing them off Beachy Head, polluting our seas be damned! 

Torver in particular would surely make a lovely splash!

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My first encounter with Lewis came when I checked in to the Elphinstone Hotel in Biggar, another pleasant small town amazingly in the same county as Glasgow (I had no intention of visiting that city as Carl had had to go there once for some army thing and had utterly hated it). The lady behind the counter checked me in, quite efficiently despite her apparently having a problem with a rogue eyelash, and rang the bell to summon someone to take my cases up to my room. Then quite literally the room went dark as someone - _or some thing_ \- loomed up behind me blocking out all the light from the front window. I turned round to find one of the largest specimens of humanity that I had ever seen, lurking behind me.

I thought instinctively that the departed Mr. ‘Tiny’ Little had never told me that he had an even bigger, Caledonian brother. Ye Gods this man was huge!

“Lewis!” the woman said sharply. “Do not just stand there! Take Mr. Holmes's bags up to Room Three at once! And for heaven's sake be careful!”

I did not like the way in which she spoke to the fellow, who may not have looked the most intelligent creature around but was still a member of the human race. I followed the behemoth up the stairs which were thankfully wide enough to accommodate his huge frame, and he led me to my room somehow contriving to open the door while still holding my bags. Once inside he placed them down very carefully on the bed and bowed to me. I tipped him and he left, having to once again move slightly sideways to get his huge frame through the door.

All right, I supposed that he might just about be close to what the University needed. Twice over!

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I decided that despite my recent problems with the Church I might try my luck again here, to see if I could find out something about Lewis. The kirk when I found it along a side-road was a curiosity; it looked to me as if someone had taken a fair-sized cathedral and then sat on it. Hard. Fortunately the Reverend Martin Rogerstone, a grey-haired but spry old cleric, was quite willing to tell me what he knew of my quarry.

“Such a sad thing”, he sighed. “Families, you know.”

I above most people 'knew'.

“His father is Lord Leithen”, he said, “the largest landowner around these parts.”

That did surprise me.

“A nobleman's son works as a bell-boy in a hotel?” I asked. “Why?”

“Lord Leithen married twice”, the vicar explained. “Lewis was the sole issue of the first union, which ended after only a couple of years. His Lordship was not faithful to her so one day she packed her bags, along with more than a few of his valuables, and left. He was as you might imagine not best pleased.”

 _So poor Lewis has been a permanent reminder to his father of the latter's faithlessness ever since_ , I thought. 

“Lord Leithen married again, to the current Lady Leithen, and had two more sons and four daughters”, the vicar said. “I feared at the time…. well, you are a man of the world, Mr. Holmes, so you will know what I feared. However Lord Leithen was in some financial difficulties and he was – and still is, I think – in debt to his first wife’s father.”

 _Which was fortunate indeed_ , I thought, _otherwise Lewis may well have had an ‘accident’ on his way to his impressive manhood._

“Lord Leithen is obliged by law to leave Lewis only the title, not the lands or moneys”, the vicar said, “and has already made a will cutting him off as much as he can. He did look into disinheriting him completely, but the boy’s grandfather found out and put a stop to that.”

From my interlocutor’s slight smile I guessed that he had been behind Lewis’s grandfather ‘finding out’ like that.

“What does Lewis think about this?” I asked.

The vicar smiled for some reason.

“With his head up that high I doubt that any of us knows what Lewis thinks”, he said. “He is.... his father calls him several things which add up to questioning his sanity, but the boy just seems happy doing mundane jobs like at the hotel. He helps me out around the town as well; I have no handyman skills and some jobs need his strength as I have none.”

“Is he happy in that?” I asked.

“I do not know”, the vicar admitted. “But I do know that he gets great pleasure when people around him are happy, and.....”

He suddenly stopped.

“What?” I asked.

“May I know what your interest in him is, Mr. Holmes?” he asked, suddenly wary.

“I have been asked to keep an eye out on my travels for a particularly well-defined specimen of manhood”, I said airily, “who would enjoy a well-paid job that involves the frequent removal of virtually all his clothing.”

The vicar reddened and coughed twice, before looking at me sharply.

“Your reputation precedes you, sir”, he said. “I have read Doctor Watson's stories, so I do not think that you mean the obvious there.”

“I do not”, I smiled. “A professor who I know from the university up in Edinburgh asked me to keep an eye out for a gentleman to pose for anatomy and art classes. The institution would pay a large salary for what is basically standing around naked for hours on end doing nothing. The only stipulations were that the fellow must be muscular, and preferably both young and very tall.”

The vicar smiled.

“I will tell you something else, then”, he said, “even though Lewis told me it in confidence. He said that he likes nothing more than to go to a field on the other side of the hill above the town, and lie on his back naked while looking up at the clouds.”

“With only the Good Lord to enjoy the view”, I smiled. “There are I am sure much worse 'sins' in eastern Lanarkshire. What would his father's reaction be to his leaving, do you think?”

The vicar hesitated.

“It may be an un-Christian thing to say”, he said, “but I am quite certain that his father would pay to see the back of him!”

I smiled at that. _Would he really? If so, just how much?_

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I could have approached Lewis directly and suggested he take up the position – I had wired Mr. Hanson a description of him and he had been eager for the boy to start – but given his familial situation I decided to do something else beforehand. Hence the following afternoon I requested an interview with Lord Leithen 'on a delicate matter'.

The vicar had in my opinion been far too charitable in his description of Biggar's biggest landowner. He was certainly the biggest in one sense; even the fair-sized sofa he received me on was filled with one of the widest acreages of flesh I had ever seen on a man. His first wife might well have left him to avoid having been flattened, let alone for his odious nature.

“What do you want?”

A nature that he was more than living down to. This would be tiresome, but worth it. I had again caught the hotel receptionist being sharp with Lewis earlier. I was doing this for him.

“I am representing someone involved with the University of Edinburgh”, I said loftily, “an ancient and revered institution as I am sure you are aware. I was looking for a particular type of person and I think that it is possible that your eldest son may be it.”

He looked at me incredulously.

“That moron at a university?” he scoffed. “Boy can't even speak properly!”

This I knew to be untrue. The vicar had told me that Lewis could speak perfectly well, but tended not to when around people he disliked or who treated him poorly. Like the excrescence before me.

“A rather curious bequest to the university will pay for the employment of a large gentleman of exceptionally fine muscular definition”, I said. “It is a four-year course with the option of a further four-year extension.”

“Boy's got muscles all right”, he conceded gracelessly. “No brains, though.”

That I also knew to be untrue. The vicar had told me that he got Lewis books out of the library as the fellow's reading appetite was enormous (he would certainly prosper at the university, then). It was frankly shameful that he could not get them himself but the chief librarian was the sister of this nuisance's steward so it would have surely gotten back to him.

“There are as you might imagine some preconditions”, I said. “There always are in cases like this. First, the fellow must have been born in Scotland.”

“He was that”, the villain said. “What else?”

“Second, he must be less than twenty-five years of age.”

“Still all right. Any more?”

“He must be prepared to live in Edinburgh until his time is done, or at least in one of the Lothians”, I said, smiling inwardly at his growing eagerness to be rid of his son. “I myself do not understand that precondition, but apparently the donor was very proud of their home region.”

“Like I'd miss him!” the rogue snorted. “Anything else?”

“Only that he has to be possessed of his own income, of not less than five hundred pounds sterling† a year”, I smiled. “It is fortunate that he is your eldest son, so I am sure that that is not a problem.”

His face fell.

“Damn and blast!”

“What is it?” I asked, feigning surprise.

“The boy only gets the title when I go”, he said. “No money.”

I made a face that suggested I found that surprising but was too polite to comment. Then I sighed heavily.

“I am afraid that he does not qualify, then”, I said. “It is such a pity; Her Majesty will be most unha.....”

I stopped and blushed. He looked at me sharply.

“What has the Queen got to do with this?” he demanded.

I hesitated before answering.

“I trust that you can keep a confidence, sir”, I said, looking suitably embarrassed. “I should not have said that. I cannot reveal the name of the lady who left the bequest but..... let us just say that they are _very_ close to Her Majesty, who asked to be informed _in person_ once my search was successful. I even have an open return sleeper ticket to London so that I can go there and visit the Palace once I have good news to report. But I have several other possible candidates and I am sure that I will find someone suitable....”

“What if I signed enough money over to the idiot to make him meet those terms?” he demanded.

His eyes were actually glowing with anticipation. The vicar had told me that one of his many weaknesses was his unjustifiable pride over his very distant blood connection to the Queen – they were eighth cousins once removed‡, if I remembered – and a more direct connection would be something to boast about indeed, as well as ridding him of his unwanted son.

“I have an estate up in Linlithgowshire#”, he said eagerly. “That would give him more than enough; he can keep the change if it gets him out of my hair. He can live there afterwards if he promises not to come back here.”

“Well, I suppose that that _might_ be acceptable”, I said dubiously. “I can of course only sign off on his acceptance once I have seen his new estate has become legally his, and sadly I have to leave today as I have already identified an alternative gentleman who lives near a town called Newton near Ayr, and who I have been assured does meet all the requirements.....”

“Let me get my lawyer up here and I will have it all signed off within the hour!” he said quickly.

“I suppose that I can defer my leaving that long”, I said. “If you send for your man, sir, I might take a look at your library while I wait. I am scheduled to leave by five, so I can make the connection at Carstairs Junction. If however you can guarantee that your son meets _all_ the conditions, I shall then stay as my search will be concluded and I can travel to London in order to inform the, ahem, _important_ people.”

He rang quickly for a servant.

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I could see that Mr. Ferns, Lord Leithen's lawyer, was more than a little suspicious of me, but some judicious looking at my pocket-watch encouraged the nobleman to override any objections and Mr. Lewis Mann was soon possessed of a most handsome estate which was legally and irrevocably his. It was a lot less than he likely should have had as the eldest son, but I was sure that he would be so much happier away from here and his family. He would hopefully be pleased when I explained everything to him.

He was. In fact he hugged me so hard I felt I was in serious injury of being suffocated, or at least cracking a rib. But what the vicar said about the gentle giant was also true for me; there were few things better in this world that doing something for a good man.

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Postscriptum: Lewis had a very pleasant four years at the University, and four more when his contract was extended. He married a female student there – yes, one of the ones who knew everything about his impressive body! – and they settled in his new estate where they had three sons and two daughters. I may or may not have experienced a slight dampness of the eye when on the birth of his first son he wrote to thank me again and to tell me that he was calling the boy Alfred, after the middle name of the gentleman who had made him so happy. But as Watson would surely have said, it was a manly dampness of the eye.

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_Notes:_   
_† Equivalent to at least £52,000 ($65,000) a year at 2020 prices._   
_‡ Coincidentally almost the same as Sherlock who was eight cousin twice removed to the monarch, although happily he and Lewis's father were not related.  
 _# Later West Lothian.__

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	12. Case 77: The Adventure Of The Moscow Cows ☼

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1884\. It is customary for family members to present small gifts to their new patriarch. But Mr. Oswin England is more than a little puzzled at one such gift; why has someone sent him two paintings of cows in a field? Fortunately Holmes is at hand to crack the mystery – or maybe unfortunately for once.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Mention of spousal abuse.

_[Narration by Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Esquire]_

One of the best things about this Caledonian trip of mine was in being able to pick and choose which cases I took an interest in. Apart from helping out my friend Stanley Hopkins over the Canmore murder, I could take cases for clients I mostly liked, and in this and the last case I came across two of the most pleasant clients I had ever had, the behemoth Lewis Mann (who Miss St. Leger later found out for me was indeed a distant cousin of the similarly oversized Tiny, and now Mr. Oswin England. Sadly however this case was to be one that just 'went wrong', such that no amount of effort on my part could put it right. I was compelled to hurt my client by telling him something extremely painful and worse, something that he had already suspected but, understandably, had not wished to confront until I had inadvertently made him. All I could do was salvage what I could from the wreckage.

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As I had promised, I stayed in Biggar long enough to see my new friend Lewis off to a better life in Edinburgh then left on a train heading in the opposite direction. Over the following week I explored southern Lanarkshire but I did not take to it much; only the village of Strathaven was in my opinion worth spending any time in. Elsewhere it was too industrialized, the small towns of the Borders giving way to grim, sprawling towns and villages that seemed to fall into each other, affected even this far out by the tendrils of mighty Glasgow. By the time I found myself in another grey place, this one called Cumnock, I had decided to head south and visit Galloway, which I recalled Watson had spoken of fondly the one time. However, those plans were to be put on hold when I received a request for help – from Moscow!

Fortunately the lady at the post-office (I had been there when it had arrived so they had not had to send it to me) was able to explain things.

“It's a village up near Kilmarnock, dear”, she smiled. “Not much there I'm afraid, but people ride out that way just to say they've been to Moscow.”

 _Because people will always be people_ , I thought wryly. I thanked her and hoped that whatever was wrong with her face causing her to leer at me like that soon stopped, then left to make arrangements.

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The request had come from a Mr. Oswin England, the owner of Moscow Manor which did indeed lie a few miles east of the rather plain town of Kilmarnock of which the less said, the better. Fortunately a single train from Cumnock would get me to Hurlford which was reasonably close to my destination, and Mr. England had asked (asked, I noted; not instructed like some people would have done) that if I could come to his help I should wire him the time of my train and he could have his carriage meet me there. 

It was a cold and gusty October day when I reached Hurlford and I was glad that the carriage he had sent was covered as well as containing a thick rug. Moscow was another frankly depressing place, grey and uniform, the big house lying some little distance to the north of it. Thankfully it was rather better, Georgian I think and surprisingly small considering that it was a manor house. I was glad to reach it because the rain was just starting to come down quite heavily.

Mr. Oswin England was not quite what I had been expecting, either. Like his name he looked more the typically English landowner than a Scottish one, a fellow in his mid-thirties with flyaway blond hair and a rather unfortunate nose. But he was very friendly and I definitely took to him.

“I own a farm down near Cumnock”, he explained, “so that was how I heard that you were in the area, sir. I have come across something of a mystery and I hoped that you might be able to clear it up for me. It is not murder or anything like that; indeed it is so mundane that I am almost embarrassed to have to ask for your help.”

“What is it?” I asked. 

“I thought that we might have a meal first as it is so late”, he said. I hope it is not presumptuous of me, but I asked the cook to do a full English breakfast with lots of bacon.”

I _liked_ this fellow!

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After a wonderful meal where I was sure I did not eat _that_ much bacon (quite why the maid stared in astonishment at the empty platter, I knew not), Mr. England led me to what turned out to be his gallery. It was an airy and well-lit place, filled with the usual paintings of seemingly semi-constipated ancestors frowning down at us both. Only one drew my attention, a scowling fellow who bore some resemblance to my host.

“My father”, Mr. England explained. “Done some years back and nothing like him, or so my wife says. I think it is not too far out myself. Now, where to start?”

He took a deep breath. I do not know why but I definitely sensed danger in some way, although surely there was none anywhere near here.

“We have a tradition in this family, sir”, he said. “When an estate is passed on, it is customary for everyone else in the family to provide gifts of one sort or another to the new incumbent. I received mostly the sort of tat one might have expected but someone unknown sent or rather had sent to me what you are about to see, and I have not been able to make head not tail of it. I am hoping that someone as brilliant as yourself can do better.”

I do not know why he was playing up to me like that as Watson would have confirmed that I was the most modest of fellows. My host stopped in front of what was obviously a pair of paintings and pointed to them. I stared.

And stared.

And stared some more.

 _“This is it?”_ I asked.

“It is something, is it not?” he smiled. “I can tell you that the figure in both cases is my father because of that terrible old coat of his, as otherwise he would be too small to be made out, but I do not recognize anything else at all.”

Victorian artists had in their time been responsible for some dreadful crimes against art, particularly as in this instance when it came to what was called 'pastoral works', but this.... this was several miles beyond bizarre. Apart from the solitary human figure on the extreme left of the first of the pair and the extreme right of the second, each picture featured a number of cows just standing around and doing.... whatever cows do when they stand around. There were some fields beneath a blue sky, a few clouds, a barn in the left-hand picture, a distant cottage in the right-hand one and.... that was about it. 

“If it helps, I can tell you that the paintings were done by my uncle Esmé”, my host said. “He told me that he had been commissioned to do them some time back on condition that he keep the gentleman's name a secret, but that they were in some way related to me. I have gone through the list of male family members but they all sent me something, even my cousin Roger who is the most miserly man south of Glasgow. Frankly I am at a complete loss.”

“Do cows mean anything to you?” I asked hopefully. He shook his head.

“But there is a guide at the bottom”, he said helpfully. “Very small print so I wrote it down rather than have to bring a magnifying glass every time.”

He handed me a notebook and I read what he had written:  
 _'Picture 1: Ivy, Jane, Bluebell, Edie, Amber, Alice, Tessie and Minnie'_  
 _'Picture 2: Mavis, Yvette, Emma, Winnie, Ida, Sally, Fanny and Essie'_

I was suspicious at once. I was not an expert in the naming of bovines but more than one of those names looked unusual. Unless.....

_Oh Lord, no! No!_

I double-checked my assumptions and, for once in my long and glittering career I really, _really_ wished that I had deduced incorrectly. I then took a deep breath and turned to my host. I felt so sorry for him; he had brought me in in all innocence, had treated me most kindly, and so did not deserve the bombshell that I about to drop on him. 

To my surprise he looked at his watch.

“Are you expecting someone?” I asked, momentarily distracted. He smiled.

“No”, he said. “It is just that when you sent back that you were coming, I only belatedly remembered from your books that you prefer coffee to tea so had to send to the town for some. It should be here by now.”

Incredibly, for once coffee made me feel even worse!

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“I am afraid that I must ask you one or more rather indelicate questions”, I said carefully once we had resumed the main room downstairs. “Believe me when I say, sir, that I would not do so did I not consider it necessary.”

“Of course”, he said, but I could see that he was beginning to be worried. As he had every right to be.

“First, can you tell me if your father has passed?”

That clearly confused him before he seemed to realize something.

“Oh, you mean my inheriting at such a young age?” he smiled. “I am afraid that my father has always been one for putting things off until the last possible moment. However last month he suffered a partial stroke, although he has mostly recovered. He decided to make the lands over to me at once; he lives in his own cottage down in the village now.”

 _So your father is not dead_ , I thought. _Pity._

“May I ask about your mother, sir?” I ventured.

He stared at me in surprise.

“I am afraid that she died some years back”, he said, “but thankfully not until Jane and I had had our first child, a daughter who we named Margaret after her..”

And it somehow got worse. I sighed.

“What is it, Mr. Holmes?” he asked. “What do the pictures mean?”

“I am afraid that there is no easy way to tell you this, sir”, I said heavily. “You can of course institute further inquiries, but I see no alternative.”

“No alternative to what?” he asked, visibly concerned. 

I took a deep breath. For once I hated being right.

“To my having to tell you that your father beat your mother”, I said grimly.

He stared at me in shock. There was a horrible and painfully long silence.

“How.... how can you know that?” he asked at last.

I winced. He _had_ had suspicions. There went my last hope of being wrong.

“You might challenge your uncle over it”, I said. “I think that once he knows that you have cracked the code, he will confirm it for you. You father's name is James, is it not?”

“Yes?”, he said. “But how did you know that?”

“The sixteen names do not in themselves seem to mean anything”, I said, “but you may have noticed that five cows – the second, sixth and eighth in the first painting along with the third and sixth in the second – are fully facing the painter while the remaining eleven are all side-on. If you take the initial letters of the names of those eleven, they constitute the phrase 'I BEAT MY WIFE', while the initial letters of the five other cows make the name 'JAMES' – and your father is in both paintings.”

He was clearly horrified, the poor fellow. I felt dreadful!

“I... I did wonder”, he admitted after another long pause. “Servants' gossip, you know, and the way Uncle Esmé was around Father.... but.... hitting a _lady?”_

“I think that you should invite your uncle here and speak to him”, I advised. “I am so truly sorry, sir. If there had been a way to spare you this horror I would have done, but.....”

“I had to know”, he said dully. “Thank you, sir.”

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There was little more to be said in this tragic case. Mr. England's uncle came to the house the following day and confirmed all, including the fact that there had been no mystery commissioner of his paintings. I know that after a lot of thought Mr. England agreed to pay for his father to leave the country and start a new life over in the United States but he never made it, for a second stroke the day after he had been confronted with his foul deeds proved fatal. 

My host, despite all that I had done to return his generous hospitality, still thanked me and offered to pay for my time. I declined; I did not deserve payment for inflicting misery on such a good man. In lieu of payment he made a large donation to a Glasgow charity, one that supported ladies who had suffered like his late mother. It was, I supposed, the closest that we could get to a happy ending in this sad case.

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	13. Case 78: The Adventure Of The Kirkcudbrightshire Killing ☼

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1884\. In beautiful eastern Galloway, Holmes runs straight into a murder. A dead man's body has been found floating in a local river and the killers seem obvious – or are they?

_[Narration by Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Esquire]_

Foreword: Watson is always one for the technical details, so I had better say at the start that strictly speaking Kirkcudbrightshire was not a county but a stewartry which as the name suggests was an area administered by a steward for one particular family, in this case the Douglases with whom I had already had dealings. The other stewartry in Scotland was Kincardineshire up in the Midlands, where not that far into the future I would have one of my more disturbing cases.

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As I mentioned before, I had been set to continue on to Galloway when I had received poor Mr. England's call – the wonderful fellow has reiterated how grateful he was to me before my departure, despite my having revealed such a sordid truth to him – so I decided to continue my journey southwards. My host even very generously recommended me to a hotel in which he had a share down in Moffat, a town that he thought I might like as the hotel in question did a magnificent all-bacon breakfast. 

As I said, I did not deserve such a client. 

Even in the age of the railway it took a surprising number of changes to get to Moffat, at one point passing within a few miles of Biggar where I had helped Lewis to a happier ending. Then it was an easier run down into Dumfries-shire and I changed at Beattock Junction, which I was surprised to find lay about six miles south of the famous ‘summit’ that so taxed steam-engines, going up the short branch to Moffat and a hotel (and bacon) that more than lived up to my hopes. Then it was on to Lockerbie where I changed to a slow branch-line train that chuntered its way across Dumfries-shire through a rather grey Lochmaben to Dumfries itself. 

The 'Fort of the Frisians' was a pleasant enough town and I spent over a week there, including taking the long branch up to a distant place called Moniaive which I enjoyed. Like with the Borders, I felt at peace in this area. Watson might have loved them too had it not been autumn; I had been surprised that he was bearing up so well with what must be the insufferable heat of southern Egypt but perhaps he handled it better than he did English cold. I smiled as I remembered how mortified he had been that one time when our rooms had been cold and he had inadvertently ended up cudd.... holding me in a manly embrace.

I missed him so damn much!

From Dumfries I entered Galloway, the region that comprises the two most south-westerly counties in Scotland. The eastern of its two counties was Kirkcudbrightshire, a charming collection of beautiful countryside and charming small towns. I explored Dalbeattie and Castle Douglas before taking the branch to Kirkcudbright itself, little knowing that full twenty years later I would be traversing the same line in one of our final cases together (The Adventure Of The Mazarin Stone). Then it was back to the main line and I took particularly to the village of Parton, set on peaceful Loch Ken and another place to which I would one day have a connection†. Although the next stop of New Galloway irked me when I found out that the town of that name was some five miles away from the railway station. Some railway companies had a lot to answer for!

The Portpatrick & Wigtownshire Railway sadly had form for this sort of thing, as I would find out again at the next stop which would host a most curious case. One of murder, where I would help the murderers get away with their crime, even if they could not hold their heads up in town for a while. And not just their heads…..

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I reached Gatehouse-of-Fleet Station to find it truly in the middle of nowhere. It was I suppose a bad sign that there was a horse and cart waiting for the train as well as a couple of carriages for hire as well as the fact that there was the sum total of one house visible beyond the station; at least New Galloway had been set in a village (all right, hamlet). I decided to opt for the comfort of the carriage and was soon travelling through some beautiful if utterly deserted countryside.

The town which gave the railway station its name had to have been at least six miles away but it was pleasant and welcoming, and had a good-quality hotel where they welcomed me despite this being October. I was relieved at that; not only was it out of season but I guessed that this area received little in the way of tourists. Or so I had believed until I saw that the hotel register was nearly full.

The owner, Mr. Alexander Ford, smiled at my surprise.

“Galloway has two types of visitor as a rule, painters and fishermen”, he explained. “Bad weather brings out the fishing-rods and good weather the canvasses; many of our visitors do both so are here throughout much of the year. But I suppose you are here for the murder, sir.”

I looked at him in surprise. That is not something one comes out with to someone who has barely checked in, even if it is an Englishman!

“Murder?” I asked. He nodded.

“And a good thing you are here, sir”, he said. “It happened at the start of last month and the people.... well, I am sure you know, sir.”

Indeed I did. As Watson so rightly said, the importance of my job was not only finding the guilty party so that they could be punished, but as the Aluminium Crotch Affair in particular had showed, in enabling the innocent to live their lives without the shadow of guilt forever hanging over them. Otherwise rumour clad in painted tongues could easily destroy a man.

_(Not that far into the future, I would learn the hard way just how true that saying was)._

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I had a meal in the hotel – the bacon here was rather disappointing but at least they served it all day – then went to the local police station to see about this murder that I was apparently here to solve. A Sergeant Neil Ferguson was there, a stolid and muscular fellow rather like a regular-sized version of Lewis from my Biggar case. That gentleman had made it safely to Edinburgh University and had written to me (I had left him my card) to thank me for my efforts on his behalf, as had Mr. Hanson for finding him such a prize specimen of manhood. It was nice to be thanked. 

“That would be the murder of Mr. Kell, sir”, the sergeant said. “I am afraid that he was not the most popular of gentlemen. New to the area.”

 _And obviously a Scotsman or that would have been remarked upon_ , I thought. I was getting as bad as.... someone that I knew.

“Have you any idea who may have done it?” I asked.

“The MacLeods, sir.”

_(Because I would meet another gentleman of that name in a rather important capacity later in my life, I should say now that he and these gentlemen were not closely related in any way)._

I stared at the policeman in astonishment.

“You know that for a fact?” I asked.

He sighed heavily.

“You see, Mr. Duncan and Mr. Connor, they themselves were pretty new to the area”, he said. “From the Highlands, Morayshire they said. I was suspicious of them from the start so I sent to the constabulary in Elgin. They were from there all right but they had very little on them; they could not even be sure exactly how they were related but both are definitely from the same clan by their kilts. Likely cousins and..... they live together.”

 _Ah._ I would have to tread carefully.

“How were they received in the town?” I asked.

“They fitted in very well”, the policeman said, sounding surprised at that fact. “Mr. Connor was a painter and Mr. Duncan a fisherman; they pretty much kept themselves to themselves but were decent enough. We all knew of course, but they seemed harmless enough. Helped out when asked, and they were very useful when we had the floods last winter.”

 _”Seemed?_ harmless”, I pressed. He sighed.

“Until Mr. Kell came here a few months back”, he said. “He was some distant relative of theirs – a MacLeod through his mother or grandmother, he claimed – but his lot had moved down to Edinburgh and he ran some sort of investigations agency. I cannot be having with such things in these parts and he.... he did not fit in, sir. People did not like that he seemed to be going after the MacLeods for no good reason.”

I thought wryly that much as the local people may not have approved of the MacLeods 'living together' as they did, the innate British sense of fair play clearly trumped that.

“And then Mr. Kell was found dead”, I said. “Ah.”

The sergeant nodded.

“I think he was killed a way north of the town, which would have been not far from the MacLeod's cottage”, he said. “His body was found under the bridge, with a large bruise on the back of his head. He _could_ just have slipped while crossing at the stepping-stones near the cottage and hit his head, but I doubt it.”

I looked hard at the sergeant. He held out for an impressively long time before breaking.

“The night before, Ted at the hotel heard him and Mr. Connor talking”, he said. “Mr. Connor said that he would give up everything including his own life to protect Mr. Duncan. They did not leave the place together, but Ted was sure that Mr. Connor was only a few minutes after Mr. Kell. And the next morning he is found dead!”

I thought for some little time.

“I have the feeling that there is something more to this that meets the eye”, I said at last. “I think that we need to know just what brought Mr. Kell to this remote area and started his interest in the MacLeods; it is a long way from Edinburgh to Gatehouse let alone the remoteness of this area. Your fellow force members knew nothing about them?”

“Only one thing, sir”, he said, “but it is ancient history. Way back in the sixteenth century an ancestor of theirs was expelled from the clan for some reason, although he kept the name. History is not my thing but I know that it had to have been a pretty serious offence for that to have happened.”

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Even more than usual, I missed having Watson by my side. He would surely have been able to provide me with much more information about the MacLeods from those social pages that he never read except for the very odd occasion, such as a day featuring the letter 'y'. Instead I had to once more send to Miss St. Leger down in faraway London, as well as an extra order of jam cream fingers from that bakery near Swordland's. She sent back that she was on a major hunt just now – I would soon find out just how true that was! - but would have something for me within a few days.

Boy, did she have something for me within a few days!

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Sergeant Ferguson looked at me in astonishment.

“An alibi?” he asked incredulously. “I knew that Mr. Duncan was away in Stranraer for the day, but Mr. Connor just clammed up when I asked him where he was.”

I hesitated for effect.

“I do trust that you will keep what I am about to tell you in confidence”, I said carefully.

He looked at me, clearly puzzled.

“What, sir?” he asked.

“Mr. Connor took the early train to Carlisle”, I said. “He travelled in disguise as he wished to see an eminent doctor there and see if what he had might be treatable in some way.”

“What is wrong with him?” the sergeant asked at once.

“Putting it as delicately as possible”, I said slowly, “what might best be described as 'male performance issues.”

His eyes widened in shock. He had gotten it. 

“You mean that he cannot.... the poor fellow!”

“Worse, I am afraid”, I sighed. “He can but.... not without extreme pain and soreness.”

I was not surprised when the policeman instinctively crossed his legs.

“This is of course in confidence”, I said. “Only he, his friend, his doctor, you and I know. It must never get out.”

“Of course not, sir!” the sergeant said firmly.

I bit back a smile. I gave it less than twelve hours before everyone in the town knew. Still, better that than the truth.

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Some little time later I was at the MacLeods' cottage just north of the town. It really was the most charming place, and had the Stewartry not been infernally cold I might well have looked at it for a holiday and, perhaps one day far into the future, retirement. But as I said, Watson could not cope with the cold.

The two clansmen were similar in both face and build, Mr. Connor looking the older. Both were thankfully pleased with what I had done for them in covering up their murder of their unpleasant relative.

“Although I am not going to be able to hold my head up in town any time this decade”, Mr. Connor said with a sigh.

“You had no trouble holding something up last night!” his cousin quipped. “I still cannot sit down today without wincing!”

Mr. Connor blushed at the mild reproof.

“I did not really want to spread such a rumour”, I said, “especially as my research showed that Mr. Kell was an extremely unpleasant specimen of humanity. But then blackmailers always are.”

Both men tensed at once. I thought instinctively that they were both much bigger than me and it was perhaps unwise to upset them.

“A blackmailer?” Mr. Connor said carefully.

“Charlie?”

They both baulked at my omniscience (I have always liked that word).

 _“You know?”_ Mr. Duncan asked incredulously.

“I have a clever friend in London who can find out almost anything”, I said. “She found out about a lady from the last century called Miss Mary MacLeod.” I turned to Mr. Duncan. “Your great-great-grandmother, sir.”

Both men were now very nervous.

“That was the time of the 'Forty-Five which led to the fatal field of Culloden”, I said. “In between trying to reclaim the British throne for his father, Bonnie Prince Charlie‡ found time for the odd dalliance or two. In this case there was a child – and there was more. There was a marriage, which makes you Mr. Duncan not only a cousin of the Queen-Empress but the legitimate Jacobite claimant. Mr. Kell found that out and, knowing that such a thing would likely ruin your lives what with all the press intrusion that would certainly ensue when it came out, he tried to blackmail you. He met the deserved end of all blackmailers whose victims swiftly realize that their attacker can only ever be truly silenced in one way. Permanently.

Both men were silent, although they had instinctively moved closer together. I smiled reassuringly at them.

“Mr. Jacob Kell paid the appropriate price for his greed”, I said, “and given what the townspeople know of you, there will be no further pursuit of the case. I wish you both well, gentlemen.”

They both thanked me heartily and I left. Quickly, because Mr. Connor was from the look of him very clearly determined to make sure his cousin understood that he had no 'male performance issues' whatsoever!

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_Notes:_   
_† An isolated cottage not far from the railway viaduct would draw Holmes's attentions for its secluded setting, and it would later be the home to three of his more remarkable friends._   
_‡ Charles Edward Louis John Casimir Sylvester Severino Maria Stuart (1720-1788). The grandson of the deposed King James II, hence why supporters of his family were called Jacobites (Latin Iacobus = James). The Stuarts made several efforts to regain the throne but only Charlie ever came close in 1745, reaching Derby less than 120 miles from London before British intelligence convinced him that he was outnumbered and he returned to Scotland. After his defeat at Culloden the following year he fled the country and died in exile. He did have an affair with one mistress, Clementina Walkinshaw, during the rebellion and they had a daughter Charlotte._

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	14. Case 79: The Adventure Of Logan's Run ☼

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1884\. Almost as far south-west as a man can go in Scotland, Holmes finds peace and tranquillity in a small village that the world seems to have passed by. But even in the remotest neck of the woods people will still be people – unfortunately.

_[Narration by Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Esquire]_

I finished my time in Kirkcudbrightshire with a night in Creetown, and on reaching Newton-Stewart passed on to Galloway's other county, the equally pleasant Wigtownshire. Here too was somewhere I would return to one day in the future, and I was charmed by Newton, Wigtown, Garliestown, Whithorn and Port William. The only place that I did not take to was the port of Stranraer with its connections to Ireland; it was too large and sprawling. But the end of the railway line at Portpatrick some miles west, which also had ferries, was still a small place and I liked it.

The railway helps to define the county of Wigtownshire, splitting it into three parts. The 'mainland' is divided into areas north (The Moors) and south (The Machers, from a word meaning 'low-lying') of the line, while the long hammer-shaped peninsula that includes Stranraer and Portpatrick is called The Rhinns (from a word meaning 'promontory'), and I enjoyed exploring the latter's many nooks and crannies before ending up at Port Logan† about eight miles south of Portpatrick. It was a tiny place, pretty much one street and a single tavern. But with the waves washing in from the Irish Sea it felt supremely relaxing and I decided to spend at least a week there.

I had another reminder of Watson shortly after my arrival, courtesy of a newspaper cutting that my brother Carl sent me, along with a letter telling me that he and Anne had just had a sixth son (Mycroft would be spitting feathers!) who would bear his father's name to the next generation. Much more important from my point of view was the article; Captain James Leeds had arrived home in England and had done a lengthy interview with the 'Times' about the brave English doctor who had saved both his leg and his life. The young captain was sadly invalided out of the Army because of his other injuries, but his actions meant that once again Watson's name was being spoken of with pride. I made sure to put it in with a postcard that I had purchased of the village and to dispatch it to my friend immediately.

I also received a note from Luke, telling me that Benji's wife had just given birth to a second son who was to be called William, and that the behemoth had celebrated by coming round and... oh come on, that was physically impossible!

Was it not?

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In a village as small as Port Logan one does not have to be there for any length of time before certain figures start to stand out. One of those was a Mr. Cary Ellis, a young fellow of about sixteen or seventeen years of age who could always be seen running somewhere around the village, either along the beach or amid the sand dunes. He was tall with unusual white-blond hair, and unlike so many gentlemen of excessive height he was actually co-ordinated when he moved. I commented on him to the tavern owner Mr. Parr, who smirked for some reason.

“Ever notice the way he always jumps over the wall at the same point, sir?” he asked. 

There was a low wall running almost the length of the waterfront. I had wondered at it as I had not seen any point to the thing; it started a little way down from the inn so surely any flood-water would just go round it?

“The road and wall were built seventy years ago for old Mr. MacDowell, the current laird's cousin”, Mr. Parr said. “To connect with the breakwater and bell-tower; he wanted the front all to himself and thought that with the wall blocking out everyone's light, they'd all move to higher ground. Instead most people just chucked on an upstairs!”

I smiled at that. 

“Does the cousin still live here?” I asked.

“That's why Mr. Ellis always vaults the wall where he does”, he grinned. “Right in front of young Mr. MacDowell's place!”

I thanked him for his information and decided to take a walk along the sea-front. The road and wall had likely made it a lot easier to navigate; I had seen other villages on the Rhinns that just 'ran' into the sea quite literally from the gardens of the nearby houses. There was 'MacDowell House' which being the brilliant detective that I was, I surmised was most likely to be that of the fellow who hated runners. Or one runner in particular. 

I did not immediately spot Mr. Rory MacDowell for he was standing behind the solitary tree in his garden, gazing down the road after the vanished Mr. Ellis. Luckily he did not see me at first for it gave me time to see the look on his face – a look of utter, absolute hatred. 

This needed seeing to.

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Back at the inn I asked Mr. Parr about the runner.

“Cary's eighteen though he doesn't look it”, he said. “Runs to the school down in Drummore every day; it's an eight-mile round trip but he enjoys it for some reason. A good athlete, though I doubt that'll do much for him in these parts.”

“Surely Mr. MacDowell cannot dislike him for the simple act of jumping over his cousin's maliciously-sited wall?” I asked.

“People have long memories in these parts”, he said sagely. “Little else to do round here. Old hatreds never die in country areas, sir, they just fester.”

That, I thought, was all too true.

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Since I could not stay here until Mr. MacDowell did or tried to do something to Mr. Ellis, I needed to provoke him into action. I therefore went out early the following morning and positioned myself beyond the last building of the village and at the entrance to the breakwater. Here I could not be seen from the village; I would not have put it past Mr. MacDowell to have a set of binoculars to hand. 

Sure enough the athletic Mr. Ellis came racing across right on schedule. I supposed another reason for his adversary to hate him was that he was quite good-looking, his pale skin complementing his unusual hair-colour with unusual sky-blue eyes above an aquiline nose. In contrast Mr. MacDowell would have struggled to beat the rear end of a horse in a beauty contest!

“You're the Southron!” the young man said almost accusingly.

 _(I had learned that this word, used only in Galloway, was that region's equivalent of the usual and much more ill-meant 'Sassenach', both deriving from the word 'Saxon'.)_

“I am Mr. Sherlock Holmes”, I said. “I have been observing Mr. MacDowell and his reactions to your vaulting his ancestor's wall every morning.”

He grinned cheerfully.

“Hardly think he's going to run me down, sir”, he said.

“He might do worse”, I said. “I have seen a lot of criminals in my time, young sir, and I know that a certain look like the one I caught on his face yesterday is nearly always followed by a criminal act.”

He looked at me dubiously.

“You're thinking he might try something?” he said.

“I rather suspect that he will”, I said. “May I ask, do you intend to stay here or move when you finish school?”

“I applied to the university at Edinburgh” he said, shrugging his slender shoulders. “I wanted to become a gymnastics teacher but there's no chance.”

“Why not?” I asked curiously, silently thanking the Gods for this.

“One scholarship and over four hundred students applying for it?” he laughed. “I'd need to be the luckiest man in all Scotland!”

“Well, miracles do happen”, I said. “Let us return to Mr. MacDowell for the moment. I must tell you that I believe he will try something, and it will most likely involve trying to injure you in some way, perhaps even fatally.”

He looked worried now.

“How can I stop him?” he asked. 

I smiled.

“It all starts with a letter…..”

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A few days later my time in Port Logan was up, and I told Mr. Parr that I was going to Kirkcolm at the northern end of the Rhinns before heading up towards Glasgow. I made sure to do it while his wife was nearby, as that way I could be sure that it would be round the village in the next half-hour. That would be the second piece of juicy gossip to go round this sleepy backwater; early that morning Mr. Ellis had received a letter telling him that next year's scholarship athlete had had to pull out and the Edinburgh University place was his subject to his proving his fast times. He would be headed up there the very next day.

I took a carriage as far as Portpatrick and took the precaution of taking the train back to Stranraer before securing a second one that took me to the village of Drummore where Mr. Ellis's school was. More importantly for what was about to happen, it also contained the police-station for the southern part of the peninsula where Constable Angus MacLaren looked at me as if I were quite mad when I told him what was about to happen. But after a drink (and a free meal) at the local pub he proved more amenable and at about six the following morning we set off along the western coast road back towards Port Logan. It took us an hour to get there by which time there was some light.

“This still seems far-fetched to me”, the constable grumbled. “Folks don't go around doing that sort of thing in this day and age.”

“I am sure that you know Mr. Rory MacDowell's character”, I said as we pulled up by where I had met Mr. Ellis a few days ago. “Would you care to wager a pint on him _not_ trying something?”

His silence told me that he would not. We took our equipment and worked our way round to the seaward side of the wall; fortunately the west-facing coast was still poorly lit so the chances of us being seen were minimal. Besides, it was now too late.

I stopped suddenly and gestured ahead. We were now directly opposite MacDowell House and.... ye Gods, it was worse than even I had feared. In an area about ten foot by six behind the wall someone had planted a whole load of knives and other sharp implements all pointing upwards. The constable gagged and I gave him my hip-flask which I had had ready and open. He accepted it more than gratefully.

It took some time, partly because we both wearing gloves, to dismantle this death-trap and place it in our large sack; luckily the death-trap had been installed in the bank behind the wall so we could not be seen from above as we worked. Even with the two of us it was an effort to lug it all the way back to the cart, after which I checked my watch. We were still in time.

“Just over five minutes”, I said. 

The constable nodded, and we waited.

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At the arranged time I set off again, this time driving openly along the road. Despite the ungodly hour of a morning there were two other people about, a young man in an athletics vest running along by the wall and a second figure in his garden half-hiding behind a tree, watching to see his handiwork. I grinned.

Mr. Ellis had one hand on the wall ready to jump over it when he apparently chanced to see myself and the constable approaching.

“Mr. Holmes!” he called cheerily, aborting his jump and crossing the road to greet us.

Mr. MacDowell let out an anguished cry. All of us turned to look at him.

“Sir?” the constable said. “Is something the matter?”

The man seemed speechless and just shook his head. He took a couple of steps towards the house.

“Do you not want your items, sir?” I asked coldly, gesturing to the sack which the constable had opened so that the rogue could see into it. “I am sure that when we have these tested, we will find _your_ fingerprints.”

He shook his head again and fled back into the house, whining as he went. There would be no hiding place for the rat!

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I was not exactly surprised when on meeting Mr. Ellis later that day he told me that Mr. MacDowell had decided on an immediate move to South Africa, and his lawyers had been instructed to sell his property as soon as possible. The villain had disappeared from his house for some reason.

“You were right sir, and I thank you most heartily for it”, the young man said cheerily. “My only regret is that I cannot turn that fake letter from the University into a real one. I will have a lot of explaining to do around the area when they find out.”

I smiled at him. After I had helped out the University in the matter of Mr. Hanson and Mr. Carlton plus in finding Lewis for them, the Dean had said that his institution owed me a favour. What better way to cash it in?

“Yes, sadly that letter was a fake”, I said. _“This one_ , on the other hand, is real.”

I handed him the letter I had had in my pocket. He read it, and I knew from when his eyes widened when he had got to the important part. 

“The Dean owed me a favour”, I said, “and what better way of using it than giving an excellent young runner a scholarship. I hope that you do well at the University, young sir, and that you are a credit to Wigtownshire.”

He managed to recover, though it clearly took an effort.

“That I will be, sir”, he said fervently. “Thank you. Thank you so much!

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Postscriptum: Mr. MacDowell did not get to South Africa. He did not even get out of Scotland. He had hidden in the house of an old servant of his up in Stranraer but was arrested on the quayside at Portpatrick whence he had planned to flee first to Ireland and then move on from there. The authorities took a dim view of someone who would maliciously try to injure someone for no good reason and he had the pleasure of several years inside one of Her Majesty's gaols before he could breathe free air again, during which time his estate passed to someone rather better. Thankfully Port Logan was to be spared the villain’s reappearance; he went to Glasgow and sank into that city's darker reaches, never to be seen again. Mr. Logan on the other hand fulfilled his aim of becoming a gymnastics teacher and went on to become headmaster of a school in Stranraer. Indeed, we would encounter him again one day in a strange matter that was not what it seemed - until it was.

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_Notes:_   
_† The TV drama 'Two Thousand Acres Of Sky' (2001-2003) was filmed in the village._

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	15. Case 80: When The Boat Comes In ☼

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1884\. Holmes has his third major shock in less than three years – a twin brother! Even worse, a smug twin brother!

_[Narration by Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Esquire]_

Foreword: Given the subject matter contained in this story, I have of course changed some of the geographical details. Also I may or may not have possibly moved this story slightly out of place in the sequence of events covering my Caledonian trip. Inverwick is a real village, somewhere in southern Scotland.†

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Watson was always so much better than me at background matters, and I thought of my friend that December as the Third Reform Act was finally passed by the House of Commons. It meant that the franchise now extended to about forty per cent of all men (the richest property-owning forty per cent, of course!), and as was becoming more and more noticeable, zero per cent of all women. Curiously my next adventure would start with a particularly powerful lady whose sudden and unexpected appearance would rock my world, much (I would only later find out) as Watson's own world was about to be rocked.

I had left Port Logan and a still incredulous Mr. Ellis (he would have to complete his final year's school in the Rhinns but would start at the University the following summer), and headed north, working my way up the coast back through Ayrshire and still intent on avoiding Glasgow as much as possible. I visited Ballantrae, Girvan and Maybole, all of which were all pleasant enough places. I also called in at the strange Electric Brae at Dunure, where the strange alignment of road and surrounding countryside made an uphill slope look like a downhill one. I then stopped at the town of Ayr, which like Stranraer was rather too large for my tastes but the hotel (or at least its bacon) was good.

After leaving Ayr I had paused for a day at Troon, which I had found to be a tolerable resort, and had just finished a breakfast that may or may not have included eight rashers of bacon (even if it had, there had certainly been no reason for the hotel staff to have looked _that_ incredulous; what did they expect if they laid on a buffet breakfast?) when I realized that someone was approaching my table. I looked up – and my jaw dropped. 

It was Miss Clementine St. Leger!

“Scotsmen!” she grumbled as she took and seat and gave one of the waiters a look that had him scurrying away to bring her a drink. “I have been groped twice since the Border!”

Surprised (or astonished) as I was to see her, I still quirked an eyebrow at that. She shrugged her shoulders.

“That is what hospitals are for”, she said. “A certain Caledonian Railway guard will not be 'punching any tickets' for a while! You will need coffee, and lots of it. I have news.”

My eyed widened and I experienced a momentary panic attack before she caught up.

“For you”, she clarified. _“Not_ the doctor.”

A small part of me wondered why she had not just said that Watson was fine (if I had not been so amazed at her unannounced appearance in an Ayrshire hotel dining area I might and likely should have pursued that thought), but I just sat back and waited. Her coffee arrived – incredibly, despite it being breakfast the waiter had brought her a tray of cakes with two jam cream fingers on it, which I found moderately unsettling – and she took a bite out of one of them before sighing heavily.

“When you found out who your real father was”, she said, “did you go and talk to your mother about it?”

I winced at the memory.

 _“I_ have just eaten!” I said plaintively. 

“A pity you did not hang around back then”, she said. “I had to talk to her myself just recently, but most luckily she had just worked her latest horror out on your brother Randall who had rolled up because 'someone' had sent him a hoax telegram saying that he was needed there.”

From her slightly smug expression I could wager just who had sent that telegram. Oh dear, poor Randall. How very sad. Sniff.

_(Watson would have been proud at my utter insincerity there)._

“So I talked with her quite safely”, she went on, “and she told me that she was going to tell you except that you had to leave to catch your train.”

“Tell me what?” I asked, confused. “She cannot have messed up my life any more!”

She was shaking her head at me. What was I thinking? This was my mother, after all!

 _Can she have?”_ I ventured.

“About thirty years ago she rather did”, my friend said. “She had twins.”

I stared at her in astonishment.

“I have a twin?” I said incredulously. I had thought that what with five brothers, a sister, a half-brother, a former half-brother, a stepbrother _and_ a sort of cousin (assuming that Benji had not yet killed Luke through sex, which was not a safe assumption by any means), my family life had surely been complex enough, but this was something else. She nodded.

“Called Sherrinford, like you partly after your real father Lord Sheridan Hawke and partly after your maternal grandfather Mr. Lockford O'Reilly”, she said. “You may remember that your curmudgeonly Uncle Edmund adopted an orphan having had three girls before his wife died, none of whom contributed greatly to the improvement of the human race. Sherrinford Holmes was that orphan and his main beneficiary. He has moved around quite a lot but he is currently not far from here, a place called Inverwick west of Glasgow.”

I at once saw the obvious.

“Why did this not come out along with everything else?” I asked. 

She frowned.

“That is what worries me about this fellow”, she said. “There was no way that his existence should have been able to have been kept from me, yet somehow it was. I had the feeling that things looked a little _too_ perfect, but there was nothing that I could put my finger on and I was busy at the time, so I did not push it. I had been looking into it thoroughly these past few months, but still nothing. And now just as you are within a few dozen miles of the fellow, it suddenly becomes known to me. This stinks more than the cologne of that lounge-lizard brother of yours!”

I took a deep breath.

“I have to see him!” I said firmly. “What does he do up here?”

“I have no idea.”

I stared at her, now some way beyond disbelief. For her to say something like that – my world had well and truly been turned upside-down!

 _”You_ have no idea?” I asked, wondering at this strange world that I had somehow wandered into. It was like being told that the Pope had tired of that Catholicism thing and had decided to instruct all his followers to become Buddhists.

“Seriously”, she said. “You know how good Swordland's is even at this distance. Not only can I not explain how he avoided detection until this most timely of moments with you close to hand, I can find no reason for his moving around the country like he has. No reason as to why after all that moving he has spent the past three years in a tiny fishing-village, although I have a suspicion that it has something to do with that storm which killed so many of the young men from the village just before he went there. But you should go and see him anyway. Perhaps make it your next case.”

I sighed. I needed more coffee. And bacon!

And another plate of cakes because she had eaten both the..... oh, apparently the hotel had that covered.

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To get to Inverwick, which lay on the west coast, was not an easy task while avoiding the mess that was Glasgow, so I took the branch up the coast to Largs then hired a carriage for the ride to Wemyss (say 'weems') Bay north of which the village lay. Wemyss Bay itself turned out to be a pleasant little resort and I booked into a hotel for a week. It was also where ferries ran over to Rothesay on the island of Bute (for foreign readers I should explain that that town drew my attention because I knew – all right, Watson had told me – that 'Duke of Rothesay' was one of the titles held by the wayward heir to the Imperial throne, or as some utterly disrespectful acquaintance of mine insisted on calling him, Tum-Tum.

I really missed him (Watson, not Tum-Tum).

Inverwick was close to the railway line from Glasgow but too small to have a station of its own while the one at Inverkip, the first stop up the line, was barely any closer than that in the town, so I hired another carriage and headed north. The road breasted a hill and there was a tiny finger-post stating 'Inverwick' pointing down a narrow track towards the sea (there was no way that anyone could have termed it a road). I duly followed it.

There seemed nothing unusual about the place, at least at first. It looked like so many other small harbour villages; there were several fishing-boats tied up and one just coming in, its engine steaming away obscenely loudly in my opinion. It was only when I rounded a corner and came within sight of them that I became aware that something was off. Almost as one the men working on the boats looked up at my approach, and there was a hurried meeting before several of them – mostly the larger ones, I noted with interest – moved towards me. I stopped my carriage and waited for their approach.

They halted some distance in front of the carriage. Thankfully this was Great Britain so they would know that the hand in my pocket meant that I was likely armed (Miss St. Leger had advised me so to be), hence rushing a stranger might or might not be successful but would certainly result in a whole load of injuries, perhaps some fatal. 

One of the men spoke up.

“Who're you, sir?

He sounded not so much hostile as wary, I thought. Or perhaps that was what I wished to think. Now that they were closer some of them were looking at me very oddly, almost as if they recognized me from somewhere (I was sure they could not as the drawings that accompanied Watson's stories about us were not that detailed, plus I was not wearing my replacement deer-stalker as it was a particularly windy day). I noted that the incoming boat was nearly at the quayside and, curiously, there seemed to be rather a lot of young girls waiting for it.

I began to have a horrible feeling just what had been going on here. I would have thought that this could not have been worse but my disobliging brain immediately suggested that my mother might make a story out of it, and it was not the December chill that made me shudder.

“I am Mr. Sherlock Holmes”, I said, keeping my hand on my gun, “and I am looking for someone. Someone who I believe may be here.”

Somewhat ineffectually two of the men moved across in an attempt to try to block my view of the quayside (they would have had to have been twelve foot tall for that to have worked!). The incoming boat had tied up now and the crowd waiting for it had grown to about twenty. The men on board had clearly become aware that something was happening on the quayside and most of them had lined up on the boat, watching me. Most of them. One tall flaxen-haired young fellow seemed oblivious to the world around him and had leaped off the boat to be surrounded by the ladies, none of whom seemed to be the least bit interested in anything else.

The men in front of me looked almost as one at this fellow, then at me. I heard more than one poorly suppressed oath from some of them. I was not surprised.

“I am sure that the gentleman over there has a busy schedule”, I smiled, “but I would hope that he might spare some time for someone who has come all this way to see him. Someone _close_ to him.”

The tall fellow was talking to the various ladies all of whom sloped off, clearly very reluctant to leave him. He strode swiftly towards me, and as he neared I caught my breath. The hair colour and clothing apart, he was...... well.

_He was me!_

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It was some time and several strong coffees later. My twin and I were sat in his small sitting-room; I had given the circumstances expected something much larger but this was a pleasant little place he had made for himself. I supposed he could always do his 'work' elsewhere. If it were me.... 

I shook myself and thought even more fervently that my mother must never get to hear of this.

“Yes, the Holmes family does excel when it comes to strangeness”, he smiled. “I am sorry to have to spring this on you now, brother, especially with dear Watson still in Foreign Parts, but I wished to meet you some time before his return.”

“Why?” I asked. “And how do you.... I mean, how can you...?”

He smiled at my incoherence. His eyes were a curious light blue rather than my own electric blue ones, but that apart we were strikingly similar. Weirdly his facial structure was at the same time different from mine yet similar in a way that I could not quite describe. He was me.... yet he was not me.

It was _annoying!_

“I had better start at the beginning”, he said. “We were both named as I am sure Miss St. Leger told you partly after our real father, Lord Sheridan Hawke. Not a bad man really although he had his faults his main one being an inability to keep it in his trousers. And we are similarly named after our inimitable mother's father Lockford O'Reilly whose wife Mary had what is commonly called the Sight, the ability to view time less as a straight line and more as a tangle of spaghetti. In short, she could see the future.”

“You inherited it”, I said, not at all enviously. And not at all irritated by his knowing smile.

“I did”, he said. “Like so many things in this world of sorrows it has been both a blessing and a curse.”

“How could it be a curse?” I wondered.

He looked at me quite seriously.

“I have been watching you, brother”, he said. “From well before you met Watson. I even know about Miss Amelia Everett.”

I blushed fiercely. Damnation!

“I also know about your regrettable tendency to keep things from people”, he said, “which is why the good doctor is currently the best part of a thousand miles away. Do not worry though; he will return.”

I looked at him hopefully.

“You are sure of that?” I asked.

“Having said that”, he said heavily, “the two of you will face a whole heap of difficulties over the next” - he pulled out his watch and looked at it - “sixteen years or so.”

 _“Sixteen years!”_ I exclaimed, perhaps a tad loudly.

“But on the upside you will have me”, he said. “My time here is almost done; another year or so then the next generation will be very firmly established.”

I really did not want to ask the obvious, but I had to know. Fortunately his precognitive abilities spared me the actual words. 

“I came here after the storm”, he said, “when nearly a whole young generation of young men had been wiped out. They are simple folks which is good, particularly as they are unaware that I saw it coming...”

“You could not have warned them?” I interrupted. He shook his head.

“I do not know how I know these things”, he said, sounding almost sad now, “but I just _know_ when I can and cannot give warnings. For example, a chance visit to London a couple of years back when I advised a certain troubled landlady in Baker Street to seek your assistance, and to inadvertently provide you with your most famous address. That, I knew, was permissible.”

“Uncle Edmund took and raised you”, I said. “I was told that he had adopted a distant cousin.”

“Poor fellow”, he smiled. “He had three daughters – a disappointment to him and, it has to be said, all Mankind – so yes, he adopted me. He was not above using my talents to bet on the occasional horse, but there are far worse sins than that in this world of ours.”

“He died two years back”, I said, thinking back to what I had thought then to have been a major change in my life. “Seventy-four was not bad, I suppose.”

My twin smiled for some reason.

“What?” I asked.

“It was, I am afraid, less mortification of the liver and more _la morte d'amour!”_ he smiled. “Even the older generation have urges, which given his health proved not just unwise but fatal.”

“You could not stop him?” I asked.

“He was destined for a horrible disease a few years on”, he said. “At least this way he went out with a smile on his face, even if they had trouble closing the coffin lid!”

I glared at him. He was almost as bad as Watson!

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I said goodbye to my twin who informed me that he would be in touch 'on and off' over the years and, even more importantly, that I would definitely have Watson back the year after next. He also very generously advised me not to go back to London any time this coming year as our mother was working on a major story which, he said, was bad even for her!

I could perhaps see what he meant about the disadvantages of his ability. To know anything of what Mother was writing before the brain had a chance to switch to something less horrifying – ugh!

There was also a curious event that happened the same day as my visit to Inverwick, so I am going to include it here as it would become relevant later. I was by this time exchanging telegrams with Watson on a regular basis and his new one had reached me that morning just as I was setting out, so I had pocketed it thinking to enjoy it later when I was back in Wemyss Bay. But when I read it, I felt that something was amiss in southern Egypt. Rather like my twin had said, I did not know how I knew but I most definitely sensed trouble.

It would take me over four years to find out just what that trouble was.

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_Notes:_  
 _† Bizarrely, I wrote this story unaware that there was actually a disaster almost exactly like this and around this time – and in southern Scotland! On October 14th, 1881, a terrible storm struck the Berwickshire coast and 189 fishermen, 129 from the small village of Eyemouth, were killed. A public fund raised over £50,000 for the families affected (£4.75 million or $6 million at 2020 prices)._

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	16. Interlude: Assessment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1884\. Fraternal greetings – as it all starts to go to pot (again).

_[Narration by Mr. Sherrinford Holmes, Esquire]_

It was good to see Sherlock, especially as his 'loss' of his friend seemed to have finally, _finally_ prompted him to do something about his dreadful appearance. He was much neater now, although I knew that his room in Baker Street would revert to standard Sherlock mess within minutes of his return there. Poor Mrs. Hudson – or poor her maids! The only thing not neat about him was his hair which he still wore too long and was not so much flyaway as plain untidy. Yet he had combed it that morning, as I knew. 

Even with the Sight, some mysteries were still beyond me.

All right, I _had_ enjoyed grossing my twin out over our uncle's death, but for my adoptive father that had definitely been the best way to go. And when my twin's brilliant brain pieced together just what (and who, and who, and who) I was doing in Inverwick, he had looked frankly disturbed. Which bearing in mind some of the dreams he had had about a certain medical personage.... I shall not make that remark about pots and kettles, but really! And to think he criticized his cousin over Mr. Jackson-Giles!

I knew from the telegram that my twin had received shortly after leaving me that he had been uneasy, as Watson had never been good at hiding his feelings. Or coping with feelings, full stop. On the plus side I had the Sight; on the minus there was getting together two of the most emotionally constipated men on the whole damn planet! If I was part of some grand master plan to get Sherlock through his life unscathed, they might have set me something easier to start with. Raising Atlantis, perhaps?

No, it was good for my twin to have some time to reflect on things without his friend, and to travel through Great Britain like this. He still had many adventures ahead of him before they would meet up again, although when he got to Ross-shire...... well really! I mean, of all the things to do to someone who falls off a chair!

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	17. Interlude: One Night In Egypt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1884\. Watson wakes up to a rather inconvenient truth.....

_[Narration by Doctor John Watson, M.D.]_

Oh God! Oh God! Oh God! Oh God! Oh God!

What had I gone and done now?

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When I had operated on Captain James Leeds a few months back, I could have had no idea of the consequences that would arise from just doing my job. At first everything had been fine; Holmes had written to tell me that the newspapers back home had been full of praise for my work with none of them even mentioning my traitorous grandfather, and that been followed up when Captain Leeds had on reaching home done a lengthy interview praising my work, which had again made the newspapers. That was great!

Not so great – disastrous, in fact – was what ensued. Captain Leeds had a number of family members serving in the Army including a cousin Captain Matthew Leeds who was out here in Egypt. I was introduced to his party that November, and among them was an attractive young lady called Miss Elizabeth Bradley, although I did not know how she was connected to the family. The two of us became acquaintances as she sometimes carried out volunteer work at the barracks hospital, and one evening in December a combination of too much alcohol and too little sense led to me and her..... you know.

I had thought that I could feel nothing worse than waking up the following morning next to her – until she chose that particular moment to say that she might have forgotten to mention it during our few weeks' acquaintance but her connection to the Leedses was that she was engaged to Captain Matthew Leeds! I could not get out of there fast enough; thank the Lord that it was her quarters, no-one saw me, and I could go back to my room for a long cold bath.

Of course I had to go and have a letter from Holmes that very day (he wrote and telegraphed me frequently but the letters took anything from three to five weeks to reach me down here so arrived irregularly). I tried to frame a response but I was so upset that I do not know what I finally came out with. Thank the Lord that he was a thousand miles away and could not see me making a complete fool of myself.

I hoped that he could not see it. One never knew with Holmes!

Fortunately Eli... Miss Bradley and Captain Leeds were to marry as soon as they got back to England for which they were leaving in February. I could only hope she would..... you know, on the boat so that if the worst happened she could..... damnation, why was my life so complicated again?

I was also losing hope over the situation down in the Sudan, which had gone from dire to worse. General Charles Gordon had been cut off in Khartoum for nine months now; surely he could not hold out for much longer? And where was that damn relief army that those idiot politicians in London had promised?

On top of it all I still missed Holmes. I missed him so damn much!

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